THE 
ABYSMAL   BRUTE 


THE 
ABYSMAL  BRUTE 


BY 
JACK  LONDON 

Author  of  "The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  "The  Sea 

Wolf,"  "Smoke  Bellew,"  "The 

Night  Born,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
STREET  &  SMITH.  NEW  YORK 


Published,  May,  1913 


&% 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 


i 

171 


THE 
ABYSMAL  BRUTE 


SAM  STUBENER  ran  through  his 
mail  carelessly  and  rapidly.    As  be 
came  a  manager  of  prize-fighters, 
he  was  accustomed  to  a  various  and  bi 
zarre  correspondence.   Every  crank,  sport, 
near  sport,  and  reformer  seemed  to  have 
ideas    to    impart    to    him.     From    dire 
threats  against  his  life  to  milder  threats, 
such  as  pushing  in  the  front  of  his  face, 
from  rabbit-foot  fetishes  to  lucky  horse 
shoes,  from  dinky  jerkwater  bids  to  the 
quarter-of-a-million-dollar  offers  of  irre 
sponsible  nobodies,  he  knew  the  whole 
run  of  the  surprise  portion  of  his  mail. 
3 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

In  his  time  having  received  a  razor-strop 
made  from  the  skin  of  a  lynched  negro, 
and  a  finger,  withered  and  sun-dried,  cut 
from  the  body  of  a  white  man  found  in 
Death  Valley,  he  was  of  the  opinion  that 
never  again  would  the  postman  bring  him 
anything  that  could  startle  him.  But  this 
morning  he  opened  a  letter  that  he  read 
a  second  time,  put  away  in  his  pocket, 
and  took  out  for  a  third  reading.  It  was 
postmarked  from  some  unheard-of  post- 
office  in  Siskiyou  County,  and  it  ran: 

Dear  Sam: 

You  don't  know  me,  except  my  reputa 
tion.  You  come  after  my  time,  and  I  Ve 
been  out  of  the  game  a  long  time.  But  take 
it  from  me  I  ain't  been  asleep.  I  Ve  fol 
lowed  the  whole  game,  and  I  Ve  followed 
you,  from  the  time  Kal  Aufman  knocked  you 
out  to  your  last  handling  of  Nat  Belson,  and 
I  take  it  you  're  the  niftiest  thing  in  the  lin* 
of  managers  that  ever  came  down  the  pike 
4 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

I  got  a  proposition  for  you.  I  got  the 
greatest  unknown  that  ever  happened.  This 
ain't  con.  It's  the  straight  goods.  What 
do  you  think  of  a  husky  that  tips  the  scales 
at  two  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  fighting 
weight,  is  twenty-two  years  old,  and  can  hit 
a  kick  twice  as  hard  as  my  best  ever? 
That 's  him,  my  boy,  Young  Pat  Glendon, 
that 's  the  name  he  '11  fight  under.  I  've 
planned  it  all  out.  Now  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  hit  the  first  train  and  come  up  here. 

I  bred  him  and  I  trained  him.  All  that 
I  ever  had  in  my  head  I  Ve  hammered  into 
his.  And  maybe  you  won't  believe  it,  but 
he  's  added  to  it.  He  's  a  born  fighter.  He  's 
a  wonder  at  time  and  distance.  He  just 
knows  to  the  second  and  the  inch,  and  he 
don't  have  to  think  about  it  at  all.  His  six- 
inch  jolt  is  more  the  real  sleep  medicine  than 
the  full-arm  swing  of  most  geezers. 

Talk  about  the  hope  of  the  white  race. 
This  is  him.  Come  and  take  a  peep.  When 
you  was  managing  Jeffries  you  was  crazy 
about  hunting.  Come  along  and  I  '11  give 
you  some  real  hunting  and  fishing  that  will 
5 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

make  your  moving  picture  winnings  look 
like  thirty  cents.  I  '11  send  Young  Pat  out 
with  you.  I  ain't  able  to  get  around. 
That 's  why  I  'm  sending  for  you.  I  was 
going  to  manage  him  myself.  But  it  ain't 
no  use.  I  'm  all  in  and  likely  to  pass  out  any 
time.  So  get  a  move  on.  I  want  you  to 
manage  him.  There 's  a  fortune  in  it  for 
both  of  you,  but  I  "want  to  draw  up  the 
contract. 

Yours  truly, 

PAT  GLENDON. 

Stubener  was  puzzled.  It  seemed,  on 
the  face  of  it,  a  joke  —  the  men  in  the 
fighting  game  were  notorious  jokers  — 
and  he  tried  to  discern  the  fine  hand  of 
Corbett  or  the  big  friendly  paw  of  Fitz- 
simmons  in  the  screed  before  him.  But 
if  it  were  genuine,  he  knew  it  was  worth 
looking  into.  Pat  Glendon  was  before 
his  time,  though,  as  a  cub,  he  had  once 
seen  Old  Pat  spar  at  the  benefit  for  Jack 
Dempsey.  Even  then  he  was  called 
6 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  Old  "  Pat,  and  had  been  out  of  the  ring 
for  years.  He  had  antedated  Sullivan^  in 
the  old  London  Prize  Ring  Rules,  though 
his  last  fading  battles  had  been  put  up 
under  the  incoming  Marquis  of  Queens- 
bury  Rules. 

What  ring-follower  did  not  know  of 
Pat  Glendon?  —  though  few  were  alive 
who  had  seen  him  in  his  prime,  and  there 
were  not  many  more  who  had  seen  him 
at  all.  Yet  his  name  had  come  down  in 
the  history  of  the  ring,  and  no  sporting 
writer's  lexicon  was  complete  without  it. 
His  fame  was  paradoxical.  No  man  was 
honored  higher,  and  yet  he  had  never  at 
tained  championship  honors.  He  had 
been  unfortunate,  and  had  been  known 
as  the  unlucky  fighter. 

Four  times  he  all  but  won  the  heavy 
weight  championship,  and  each  time  he 
had  deserved  to  win  it.  There  was  the 
time  on  the  barge,  in  San  Francisco  Bay, 
7 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

when,  at  the  moment  he  had  the  cham 
pion  going,  he  snapped  his  own  forearm; 
and  on  the  island  in  the  Thames,  slosh 
ing  about  in  six  inches  of  rising  tide,  he 
broke  a  leg  at  a  similar  stage  in  a  win 
ning  fight;  in  Texas,  too,  there  was  the 
never-to-be-forgotten  day  when  the  police 
broke  in  just  as  he  had  his  man  going  in 
all  certainty.  And  finally,  there  was  the 
fight  in  the  Mechanics'  Pavilion  in  San 
Francisco,  when  he  was  secretly  jobbed 
from  the  first  by  a  gun-fighting  bad  man 
of  a  referee  backed  by  a  small  syndicate 
of  bettors.  Pat  Glendon  had  had  no  ac 
cidents  in  that  fight,  but  when  he  had 
knocked  his  man  cold  with  a  right  to  the 
jaw  and  a  left  to  the  solar  plexus,  the  ref 
eree  calmly  disqualified  him  for  fouling. 
Every  ringside  witness,  every  sporting 
expert,  and  the  whole  sporting  world, 
knew  there  had  been  no  foul.  Yet,  like 
all  fighters,  Pat  Glendon  had  agreed  to 
8 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

abide  by  the  decision  of  the  referee.  Pat 
abided,  and  accepted  it  as  in  keeping  with 
the  rest  of  his  bad  luck. 

This  was  Pat  Glendon.  What  bothered 
Stubener  was  whether  or  not  Pat  had 
written  the  letter.  He  carried  it  down 
town  with  him.  What 's  become  of  Pat 
Glendon?  Such  was  his  greeting  to  all 
sports  that  morning.  Nobody  seemed  to 
know.  Some  thought  he  must  be  dead, 
but  none  knew  positively.  The  fight  ed 
itor  of  a  morning  daily  looked  up  the 
records  and  was  able  to  state  that  his 
death  had  not  been  noted.  It  was  from 
Tim  Donovan,  that  he  got  a  clue. 

"  Sure  an'  he  ain't  dead,"  said  Donovan. 
"How  could  that  be?  —  a  man  of  his 
make  that  never  boozed  or  blew  himself? 
He  made  money,  and  what 's  more,  he 
saved  it  and  invested  it.  Did  n't  he  have 
three  saloons  at  the  one  time?  An* 
was  n't  he  rnakin'  slathers  of  money  with 
9 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

them  when  he  sold  out?  Now  that  I  'm 
thinkin',  that  was  the  last  time  I  laid  eyes 
on  him  —  when  he  sold  them  out.  'T  was 
all  of  twenty  years  and  more  ago.  His 
wife  had  just  died.  I  met  him  headin*  for 
the  Ferry.  *  Where  away,  old  sport?  '  says 
I.  '  It 's  me  for  the  woods/  says  he. 
'  I  Ve  quit.  Good-by,  Tim,  me  boy.' 
And  I  Ve  never  seen  him  from  that  day 
to  this.  Of  course  he  ain't  dead." 

"  You  say  when  his  wife  died  —  did  he 
have  any  children?  "  Stubener  queried. 

"  One,  a  little  baby.  He  was  luggin'  it 
in  his  arms  that  very  day." 

"Was  it  a  boy?" 

"  How  should  I  be  knowin'?  " 

It  was  then  that  Sam  Stubener  reached 
a  decision,  and  that  night  found  him  in  a 
Pullman  speeding  toward  the  wilds  of 
Northern  California. 


10 


II 

STUBENER  was  dropped  off  the 
overland  at  Deer  Lick  in  the  early 
morning,  and  he  kicked  his  heels 
for  an  hour  before  the  one  saloon  opened 
its  doors.  No,  the  saloonkeeper  didn't 
know  anything  about  Pat  Glendon,  had 
never  heard  of  him,  and  if  he  was  in  that 
part  of  the  country  he  must  be  out  be 
yond  somewhere.  Neither  had  the  one 
hanger-on  ever  heard  of  Pat  Glendon. 
At  the  hotel  the  same  ignorance  obtained, 
and  it  was  not  until  the  storekeeper  and 
postmaster  opened  up  that  Stubener 
struck  the  trail.  Oh,  yes,  Pat  Glendon 
lived  out  beyond.  You  took  the  stage  at 
Alpine,  which  was  forty  miles  and  which 
was  a  logging  camp.  From  Alpine,  on 
ii 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

horseback,  you  rode  up  Antelope  Valley 
and  crossed  the  divide  to  Bear  Creek. 
Pat  Glendon  lived  somewhere  beyond 
that.  The  people  of  Alpine  would  know. 
Yes,  there  was  a  young  Pat.  The  store 
keeper  had  seen  him.  He  had  been  in  to 
Deer  Lick  two  years  back.  Old  Pat  had 
not  put  in  an  appearance  for  five  years. 
He  bought  his  supplies  at  the  store,  and 
always  paid  by  check,  and  he  was  a  white- 
haired,  strange  old  man.  That  was  all 
the  storekeeper  knew,  but  the  folks  at 
Alpine  could  give  him  final  directions. 

It  looked  good  to  Stubener.  Beyond 
doubt  there  was  a  young  Pat  Glendon,  as 
well  as  an  old  one,  living  out  beyond. 
That  night  the  manager  spent  at  the  log 
ging  camp  of  Alpine,  and  early  the  fol 
lowing  morning  he  rode  a  mountain 
cayuse  up  Antelope  Valley.  He  rode 
over  the  divide  and  down  Bear  Creek. 
He  rode  all  day,  through  the  wildest, 
12 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

roughest  country  he  had  ever  seen,  and 
at  sunset  turned  up  Pinto  Valley  on  a 
trail  so  stiff  and  narrow  that  more  than 
once  he  elected  to  get  off  and  walk. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  dis 
mounted  before  a  log  cabin  and  was 
greeted  by  the  baying  of  two  huge  deer- 
hounds.  .  ,Then  Pat  Glendon  opened  the 
door,  fell  on  his  neck,  and  took  him  in. 

"  I  knew  ye  'd  come,  Sam,  me  boy," 
said  Pat,  the  while  he  limped  about,  build 
ing  a  fire,  boiling  coffee,  and  frying  a  big 
bear-steak.  "  The  young  un  ain't  home 
the  night.  We  was  gettin'  short  of  meat, 
and  he  went  out  about  sundown  to  pick 
up  a  deer.  But  I  '11  say  no  more.  Wait 
till  ye  see  him.  He  '11  be  home  in  the 
morn,  and  then  you  can  try  him  out. 
There  's  the  gloves.  But  wait  till  ye  see 
him. 

"  As  for  me,  I  'm  finished.  Eighty-one 
come  next  January,  an'  pretty  good  for 
13 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

an  ex-bruiser.  But  I  never  wasted  me- 
self,  Sam,  nor  kept  late  hours  an*  burned 
the  candle  at  all  ends.  I  had  a  damned 
good  candle,  an*  made  the  most  of  it,  as 
you  '11  grant  at  lookin'  at  me.  And  I  Ve 
taught  the  same  to  the  young  un.  What 
do  you  think  of  a  lad  of  twenty-two  that 's 
never  had  a  drink  in  his  life  nor  tasted 
tobacco?  That's  him.  He's  a  giant, 
and  he  's  lived  natural  all  his  days.  Wait 
till  he  takes  you  out  after  deer.  He  '11 
break  your  heart  travelin'  light,  him  a 
carryin'  the  outfit  and  a  big  buck  deer 
belike.  He  's  a  child  of  the  open  air,  an' 
winter  nor  summer  has  he  slept  under  a 
roof.  The  open  for  him,  as  I  taught  him. 
The  one  thing  that  worries  me  is  how 
he  '11  take  to  sleepin'  in  houses,  an'  how 
he  '11  stand  the  tobacco  smoke  in  the  ring. 
'Tis  a  terrible  thing,  that  smoke,  when 
you  're  fighting  hard  an'  gaspin'  for  air. 
But  no  more,  Sam,  me  boy.  You  're 
14 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

tired  an'  sure  should  be  sleepin'.  Wait 
till  you  see  him,  that 's  all.  Wait  till  you 
see  him." 

But  the  garrulousness  of  age  was  on 
old  Pat,  and  it  was  long  before  he  per 
mitted  Stubener's  eyes  to  close. 

"  He  can  run  a  deer  down  with  his  own 
legs,  that  young  un,"  he  broke  out  again. 
"  'T  is  the  dandy  trainin'  for  the  lungs,  the 
hunter's  life.  He  don't  know  much  of 
else,  though  he  's  read  a  few  books  at 
times  an'  poetry  stuff.  He's  just  plain 
pure  natural,  as  you  '11  see  when  you  clap 
eyes  on  him.  He 's  got  the  old  Irish 
strong  in  him.  Sometimes,  the  way  he 
moons  about,  it 's  thinkin'  strong  I  am 
that  he  believes  in  the  fairies  and  such 
like.  He  's  a  nature  lover  if  ever  there 
was  one,  an'  he 's  afeard  of  cities.  He  's 
read  about  them,  but  the  biggest  he  was 
ever  in  was  Deer  Lick.  He  misliked  the 
many  people,  and  his  report  was  that 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

they  'd  stand  weedin'  out.  That  was  two 
years  agone  —  the  first  and  the  last  time 
he  's  seen  a  locomotive  and  a  train  of  cars. 

*  Sometimes  it 's  wrong  I  'm  thinkin'  I 
am,  bringin'  him  up  a  natural.  ,  It 's  given 
him  wind  and  stamina  and  the  strength  o' 
wild  bulls.  No  city-grown  man  can  have 
a  look-in  against  him.  I  'm  willin'  to 
grant  that  Jeffries  at  his  best  could  'a' 
worried  the  young  un  a  bit,  but  only  a  bit. 
The  young  un  could  'a'  broke  him  like  a 
straw.  An'  he  don't  look  it.  That 's  the 
everlasting  wonder  of  it.  He 's  only  a 
fine-seeming  young  husky ;  but  it 's  the 
quality  of  his  muscle  that 's  different. 
But  wait  till  ye  see  him,  that 's  all. 

"A  strange  liking  the  boy  has  for 
posies,  an'  little  meadows,  a  bit  of  pine 
with  the  moon  beyond,  windy  sunsets,  or 
the  sun  o'  morns  from  the  top  of  old 
Baldy.  An'  he  has  a  hankerin'  for  the 
drawin*  o'  pitchers  of  things,  an'  of  spout- 
16 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

ing  about  '  Lucifer  or  night '  from  the 
poetry  books  he  got  from  the  red-headed 
school  teacher.  But  'tis  only  his  young- 
ness.  He  '11  settle  down  to  the  game 
once  we  get  him  started,  but  watch  out 
for  grouches  when  it  first  comes  to  livin' 
in  a  city  for  him. 

"  A  good  thing ;  he 's  woman-shy. 
They  '11  not  bother  him  for  years.  He 
can't  bring  himself  to  understand  the 
creatures,  an'  damn  few  of  them  has  he 
seen  at  that.  'Twas  the  school  teacher 
over  at  Samson's  Flat  that  put  the  poetry 
stuff  in  his  head.  She  was  clean  daffy 
over  the  young  un,  an'  he  never  a-knowin'. 
A  warm-haired  girl  she  was  —  not  a 
mountain  girl,  but  from  down  in  the  flat- 
lands  —  an'  as  time  went  by  she  was  fair 
desperate,  an'  the  way  she  went  after  him 
was  shameless.  An'  what  d  'ye  think  the 
boy  did  when  he  tumbled  to  it?  He  was 
scared  as  a  jackrabbit.  He  took  blankets 
17 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

an'  ammunition  an'  hiked  for  tall  timber. 
Not  for  a  month  did  I  lay  eyes  on  him, 
an'  then  he  sneaked  in  after  dark  and  was 
gone  in  the  morn.  Nor  would  he  as 
much  as  peep  at  her  letters.  *  Burn  'em/ 
he  said.  An'  burn  'em  I  did.  Twice  she 
rode  over  on  a  cayuse  all  the  way  from 
Samson's  Flat,  an'  I  was  sorry  for  the 
young  creature.  She  was  fair  hungry  for 
the  boy,  and  she  looked  it  in  her  face. 
An'  at  the  end  of  three  months  she  gave 
up  school  an'  went  back  to  her  own 
country,  an'  then  it  was  that  the  boy 
came  home  to  the  shack  to  live  again. 

"  Women  ha'  ben  the  ruination  of  many 
a  good  fighter,  but  they  won't  be  of  him. 
He  blushes  like  a  girl  if  anything  young 
in  skirts  looks  at  him  a  second  time  or  too 
long  the  first  one.  An'  they  all  look  at 
him.  But  when  he  fights,  when  he 
fights !  —  God !  it 's  the  old  savage  Irish 
that  flares  in  him,  an'  drives  the  fists  of 
18 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

him.  Not  that  he  goes  off  his  base. 
Don't  walk  away  with  that.  At  my  best 
I  was  never  as  cool  as  he.  I  misdoubt 
'twas  the  wrath  of  me  that  brought  the 
accidents.  But  he's  an  iceberg.  He's 
hot  an'  cold  at  the  one  time,  a  live  wire 
in  an  ice-chest." 

Stubener  was  dozing,  when  the  old 
man's  mumble  aroused  him.  He  listened 
drowsily. 

"  I  made  a  man  o'  him,  by  God !  I 
made  a  man  o'  him,  with  the  two  fists  of 
him,  an'  the  upstanding  legs  of  him,  an* 
the  straight-seein'  eyes.  And  I  know  the 
game  in  my  head,  an'  I  've  kept  up  with 
the  times  and  the  modern  changes.  The 
crouch?  Sure,  he  knows  all  the  styles 
an'  economies.  He  never  moves  two 
inches  when  an  inch  and  a  half  will  do  the 
turn.  And  when  he  wants  he  can  spring 
like  a  buck  kangaroo.  In-fightin'  ?  Wait 
till  you  see.  Better  than  his  out-fightin', 
19 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

and  he  could  sure  'a'  sparred  with  Peter 
Jackson  an'  outfooted  Corbett  in  his  best. 
I  tell  you,  I  Ve  taught  'm  it  all,  to  the  last 
trick,  and  he  's  improved  on  the  teachin'. 
He  's  a  fair  genius  at  the  game.  An*  he  's 
had  plenty  of  husky  mountain  men  to  try 
out  on.  I  gave  him  the  fancy  work  and 
they  gave  him  the  sloggin'.  Nothing  shy 
or  delicate  about  them.  Roarin'  bulls  an* 
big  grizzly  bears,  that 's  what  they  are, 
when  it  comes  to  huggin'  in  a  clinch  or 
swingin*  rough-like  in  the  rushes.  An* 
he  plays  with  'em.  Man,  d  'ye  hear  me? 
— he  plays  with  them,  like  you  an'  me 
would  play  with  little  puppy-dogs." 

Another  time  Stubener  awoke,  to  hear 
the  old  man  mumbling : 

"'Tis  the  funny  think  he  don't  take 
fightin'  seriously.  It 's  that  easy  to  him 
he  thinks  it  play.  But  wait  till  he 's 
tapped  a  swift  one.  That 's  all,  wait. 
An'  you  '11  see  'm  throw  on  the  juice  in 
20 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

that  cold  storage  plant  of  his  an*  turn 
loose  the  prettiest  scientific  wallopin'  that 
ever  you  laid  eyes  on." 

In  the  shivery  gray  of  mountain  dawn, 
Stubener  was  routed  from  his  blankets  by 
old  Pat. 

"  He  's  comin'  up  the  trail  now,"  was 
the  hoarse  whisper.  "  Out  with  ye  an* 
take  your  first  peep  at  the  biggest  fightin* 
man  the  ring  has  ever  seen,  or  will  ever 
see  in  a  thousand  years  again." 

The  manager  peered  through  the  open 
door,  rubbing  the  sleep  from  his  heavy 
eyes,  and  saw  a  young  giant  walk  into  the 
clearing.  In  one  hand  was  a  rifle,  across 
his  shoulders  a  heavy  deer  under  which 
he  moved  as  if  it  were  weightless.  He 
was  dressed  roughly  in  blue  overalls  and 
woolen  shirt  open  at  the  throat.  Coat  he 
had  none,  and  on  his  feet,  instead  of 
brogans,  were  moccasins.  Stubener  noted 
that  his  walk  was  smooth  and  catlike, 
21 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

without  suggestion  of  his  two  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  of  weight  to  which 
that  of  the  deer  was  added.  The  fight 
manager  was  impressed  from  the  first 
glimpse.  Formidable  the  young  fellow 
certainly  was,  but  the  manager  sensed  the 
strangeness  and  unusualness  of  him.  He 
was  a  new  type,  something  different  from 
the  run  of  fighters.  He  seemed  a  crea 
ture  of  the  wild,  more  a  night-roaming 
figure  from  some  old  fairy  story  or  folk 
tale  than  a  twentieth-century  youth. 

A  thing  Stubener  quickly  discovered 
was  that  young  Pat  was  not  much  of  a 
talker.  He  acknowledged  old  Pat's  intro 
duction  with  a  grip  of  the  hand  but  with 
out  speech,  and  silently  set  to  work  at 
building  the  fire  and  getting  breakfast. 
To  his  father's  direct  questions  he  an 
swered  in  monosyllables,  as,  for  instance, 
when  asked  where  he  had  picked  up  the 
deer. 

22 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"South  Fork,"  was  all  he  vouch 
safed. 

"  Eleven  miles  across  the  mountains," 
the  old  man  exposited  pridefully  to 
Stubener,  "  an'  a  trail  that  'd  break  your 
heart." 

Breakfast  consisted  of  black  coffee, 
sourdough  bread,  and  an  immense  quan 
tity  of  bear-meat  broiled  over  the  coals. 
Of  this  the  young  fellow  ate  ravenously, 
and  Stubener  divined  that  both  the  Glen- 
dons  were  accustomed  to  an  almost 
straight  meat  diet.  Old  Pat  did  all  the 
talking,  though  it  was  not  till  the  meal 
was  ended  that  he  broached  the  subject 
he  had  at  heart. 

"  Pat,  boy,"  he  began,  "  you  know  who 
the  gentleman  is?  " 

Young  Pat  nodded,  and  cast  a  quick, 
comprehensive  glance  at  the  manager. 

"  Well,  he  '11  be  takin'  you  away  with 
him  and  down  to  San  Francisco." 
23 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  I  'd  sooner  stay  here,  dad,"  was  the 
answer. 

Stubener  felt  a  prick  of  disappointment, 
It  was  a  wild  goose  chase  after  all.  This 
was  no  fighter,  eager  and  fretting  to  be 
at  it.  His  huge  brawn  counted  for  noth 
ing.  It  was  nothing  new.  It  was  the 
big  fellows  that  usually  had  the  streak  of 
fat. 

But  old  Pat's  Celtic  wrath  flared  up, 
and  his. voice  was  harsh  with  command 

"  You  '11  go  down  to  the  cities  an'  fight, 
me  boy.  That 's  what  I  've  trained  you 
for,  an'  you  '11  do  it." 

"All  right,"  was  the  unexpected  re 
sponse,  rumbled  apathetically  from  the 
deep  chest. 

"And  fight  like  hell,"  the  old  man 
added. 

Again  Stubener  felt  disappointment  at 
the  absence  of  flash  and  fire  in  the  young 
man's  eyes  as  he  answered : 
24 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  All  right.     When  do  we  start?  " 

"  Oh,  Sam,  here,  he  '11  be  wantin'  a 
little  huntin'  and  to  fish  a  bit,  as  well  as 
to  try  you  out  with  the  gloves."  He 
looked  at  Sam,  who  nodded.  "  Suppose 
you  strip  and  give  'm  a  taste  of  your 
quality." 

An  hour  later,  Sam  Stubener  had  his 
eyes  opened.  An  ex-fighter  himself,  a 
heavyweight  at  that,  he  was  even  a  bet 
ter  judge  of  fighters,  and  never  had  he 
seen  one  strip  to  like  advantage. 

"See  the  softness  of  him,"  old  Pat 
v  chanted.  "  'T  is  the  true  stuff.  Look  at 
y  the  slope  of  the  shoulders,  an'  the  lungs 
of  him.  Clean,  all  clean,  to  the  last  drop 
an'  ounce  of  him.  You  're  lookin'  at  a 
man,  Sam,  the  like  of  which  was  never 
seen  before.  Not  a  muscle  of  him  bound. 
No  weight-lifter  or  Sandow  exercise  ar 
tist  there.  See  the  fat  snakes  of  muscles 
a-crawlin'  soft  an*  lazy-like.  Wait  till 
25 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

you  see  them  flashin'  like  a  strikin'  rat 
tler.  He 's  good  for  forty  rounds  this 
blessed  instant,  or  a  hundred.  Go  to  it! 
Time!" 

They  went  to  it,  for  three-minute 
rounds  with  a  minute  rests,  and  Sam 
Stubener  was  immediately  undeceived. 
Here  was  no  streak  of  fat,  no  apathy,  only 
a  lazy,  good-natured  play  of  gloves  and 
tricks,  with  a  brusk  stiffness  and  harsh 
sharpness  in  the  contacts  that  he  knew 
belonged  only  to  the  trained  and  instinct 
ive  fighting  man. 

"  Easy,  now,  easy,"  old  Pat  warned. 
"  Sam's  not  the  man  he  used  to  be." 

This  nettled  Sam,  as  it  was  intended  to 
do,  and  he  played  his  most  famous  trick 
and  favorite  punch  —  a  feint  for  a  clinch 
and  a  right  rip  to  the  stomach.  But, 
quickly  as  it  was  delivered,  Young  Pat 
saw  it,  and,  though  it  landed,  his  body 
was  going  away.  The  next  time,  his 
26 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

body  did  not  go  away.  As  the  rip 
started,  he  moved  forward  and  twisted 
his  left  hip  to  meet  it.  It  was  only  a  mat 
ter  of  several  inches,  yet  it  blocked  the 
blow.  And  thereafter,  try  as  he  would, 
Stubener's  glove  got  no  farther  than  that 
hip. 

Stubener  had  roughed  it  with  big  men 
in  his  time,  and,  in  exhibition  bouts,  had 
creditably  held  his  own.  But  there  was 
no  holding  his  own  here.  Young  Pat 
played  with  him,  and  in  the  clinches  made 
him  feel  as  powerful  as  a  baby,  landing  on 
him  seemingly  at  will,  locking  and  block 
ing  with  masterful  accuracy,  and  scarcely 
noticing  or  acknowledging  his  existence. 
Half  the  time  young  Pat  seemed  to  spend 
in  gazing  off  and  out  at  the  landscape  in 
a  dreamy  sort  of  way.  And  right  here 
Stubener  made  another  mistake.  He 
took  it  for  a  trick  of  old  Pat's  training, 
tried  to  sneak  in  a  short-arm  jolt,  found 
27 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

his  arm  in  a  lightning  lock,  and  had  both 
his  ears  cuffed  for  his  pains. 

"  The  instinct  for  a  blow,"  the  old  man 
chortled.  "  'T  is  not  put  on,  I  'm  tellin' 
you.  He  is  a  wiz.  He  knows  a  blow 
without  the  lookin',  when  it  starts  an' 
where,  the  speed,  an*  space,  an'  niceness 
of  it.  An*  'tis  nothing  I  ever  showed 
him.  'Tis  inspiration.  He  was  so 
born." 

Once,  in  a  clinch,  the  fight  manager 
heeled  his  glove  on  young  Pat's  mouth, 
and  there  was  just  a  hint  of  viciousness 
in  the  manner  of  doing  it.  A  moment 
later,  in  the  next  clinch,  Sam  received  the 
heel  of  the  other's  glove  on  his  own 
mouth.  There  was  nothing  snappy 
about  it,  but  the  pressure,  stolidly  lazy  as 
it  was,  put  his  head  back  till  the  joints 
cracked  and  for  the  moment  he  thought 
his  neck  was  broken.  He  slacked  his 
body  and  dropped  his  arms  in  token  that 
28 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

the  bout  was  over,  felt  the  instant  release, 
and  staggered  clear. 

"  He  '11  —  he  '11  do,"  he  gasped,  looking 
the  admiration  he  lacked  the  breath  to 
utter. 

Old  Pat's  eyes  were  brightly  moist 
with  pride  and  triumph. 

"  An'  what  will  you  be  thinkin'  to  hap 
pen  when  some  of  the  gay  an'  ugly  ones 
tries  to  rough  it  on  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  '11  kill  them,  sure,"  was  Stubener's 
verdict. 

"No;  '-3  too  cool  for  that.  But 
he  '11  just  hu.rt  them  some  for  their  dirti 
ness." 

"  Let's  draw  up  the  contract,"  said  the 
manager. 

"  Wait  till  you  know  the  whole  worth 
of  him!"  Old  Pat  answered.  "  'Tis 
strong  terms  I  '11  be  makin'  you  come  to. 
Go  for  a  deer-hunt  with  the  boy  over  the 
hills  an'  learn  the  lungs  and  the  legs  of 
29 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

him.  Then  we  '11  sign  up  iron-clad  and 
regular." 

Stubener  was  gone  two  days  on  that 
hunt,  and  he  learned  all  and  more  than 
old  Pat  had  promised,  and  came  back  a 
very  weary  and  very  humble  man.  The 
young  fellow's  innocence  of  the  world 
had  been  startling  to  the  case-hardened 
manager,  but  he  had  found  him  nobody's 
fool.  Virgin  though  his  mind  was,  un 
touched  by  all  save  a  narrow  mountain 
experience,  nevertheless  he  had  proved 
possession  of  a  natural  keenness  and 
shrewdness  far  beyond  the  average.  In 
a  way  he  was  a  mystery  to  Sam,  who 
could  not  understand  his  terrible  equa 
nimity  of  temper.  Nothing  ruffled  him  or 
worried  him,  and  his  patience  was  of  an 
enduring  primitiveness.  He  never  swore, 
not  even  the  futile  and  emasculated  cuss- 
words  of  sissy-boys. 

"  I  'd  swear  all  right  if  I  wanted  to," 
30 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

he  had  explained,  when  challenged  by  his 
companion.  "  But  I  guess  I  've  never 
come  to  needing  it.  When  I  do,  I  '11 
swear,  I  suppose." 

Old  Pat,  resolutely  adhering  to  his  de 
cision,  said  good-by  at  the  cabin. 

"  It  won't  be  long,  Pat,  boy,  when  I'  11 
be  readin'  about  you  in  the  papers.  I  'd 
like  to  go  along,  but  I  'm  afeard  it 's  me 
for  the  mountains  till  the  end." 

And  then,  drawing  the  manager  aside, 
the  old  man  turned  loose  on  him  almost 
savagely. 

"Remember  what  I've  ben  tellin'  ye 
over  an'  over.  The  boy 's  clean  an'  he  's 
honest.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  rot 
tenness  of  the  game.  I  kept  it  all  away 
from  him,  I  tell  you.  He  don't  know  the 
meanin'  of  fake.  He  knows  only  the 
bravery,  an'  romance  an'  glory  of  fightin', 
and  I  've  filled  him  up  with  tales  of  the 
old  ring  heroes,  though  little  enough,  God 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

knows,  it 's  set  him  afire.  Man,  man,  I*  m 
tellin'  you  that  I  clipped  the  fight  columns 
from  the  newspapers  to  keep  it  'way  from 
him  —  him  a-thinkin'  I  was  wantin'  them 
for  me  scrap  book.  He  don't  know  a 
man  ever  lay  down  or  threw  a  fight.  So 
don't  you  get  him  in  anything  that  ain't 
straight.  Don't  turn  the  boy's  stomach. 
That's  why  I  put  in  the  null  and  void 
clause.  The  first  rottenness  and  the  con 
tract  's  broke  of  itself.  No  snide  division 
of  stake-money;  no  secret  arrangements 
with  the  movin'  pitcher  men  for  guaran 
teed  distance.  There  's  slathers  o'  money 
for  the  both  of  you.  But  play  it  square 
or  you  lose.  Understand? 

"  And  whatever  you  '11  be  doin'  watch 
out  for  the  women,"  was  old  Pat's  part 
ing  admonishment,  young  Pat  astride  his 
horse  and  reining  in  dutifully  to  hear. 
"  Women  is  death  an'  damnation,  remem 
ber  that.  But  when  you  do  find  the  one, 
32 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

the  only  one,  hang  on  to  her.  She  '11  be 
worth  more  than  glory  an'  money.  But 
first  be  sure,  an'  when  you  're  sure,  don't 
let  her  slip  through  your  fingers.  Grab 
her  with  the  two  hands  of  you  and  hang 
on.  Hang  on  if  all  the  world  goes  to 
smash  an'  smithereens.  Pat,  boy,  a  good 
woman  is  ...  a  good  woman.  'T  is 
the  first  word  and  the  last." 


33 


Ill 

ONCE    in    San    Francisco,    Sam 
Stubener's  troubles  began.     Not 
that  young  Pat  had  a  nasty  tem 
per,  or  was  grouchy  as  his  father  had 
feared.     On  the  contrary,  he  was  phe 
nomenally  sweet  and  mild.     But  he  was 
homesick    for    his    beloved    mountains. 
Also,  he  was  secretly  appalled  by  the  city, 
though  he  trod  its  roaring  streets  imper 
turbable  as  a  red  Indian. 

"  I  came  down  here  to  fight,"  he  an 
nounced,  at  the  end  of  the  first  week. 
"  Where's  Jim  Hanford?  " 
Stubener  whistled. 

"  A  big  champion  like  him  would  n't 
look  at  you,"  was  his  answer.     "  '  Go  and 
get  a  reputation/  is  what  he  'd  say." 
"  I  can  lick  him." 
34 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  But  the  public  does  n't  know  that. 
If  you  licked  him  you  'd  be  champion  of 
the  world,  and  no  champion  ever  became 
so  with  his  first  fight." 

"  I  can." 

"  But  the  public  does  n't  know  it,  Pat. 
It  would  n't  come  to  see  you  fight.  And 
it 's  the  crowd  that  brings  the  money  and 
the  big  purses.  That 's  why  Jim  Hanford 
would  n't  consider  you  for  a  second. 
There  'd  be  nothing  in  it  for  him.  Be 
sides,  he 's  getting  three  thousand  a  week 
right  now  in  vaudeville,  with  a  contract 
for  twenty-five  weeks.  Do  you  think 
he  'd  chuck  that  for  a  go  with  a  man  no 
one  ever  heard  of?  You  've  got  to  do 
something  first,  make  a  record.  You  Ve 
got  to  begin  on  the  little  local  dubs  that 
nobody  ever  heard  of  —  guys  like  Chub 
Collins,  Rough-House  Kelly,  and  the  Fly 
ing  Dutchman.  When  you  've  put  them 
away,  you're  only  started  on  the  first 
35 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

round    of    the    ladder.     But    after    that 
you  '11  go  up  like  a  balloon." 

"  I  '11  meet  those  three  named  in  the 
same  ring  one  after  the  other,"  was  Pat's 
decision.  "  Make  the  arrangements  ac 
cordingly." 

Stubener  laughed. 

"What's  wrong?  Don't  you  think  I 
can  put  them  away?  " 

"I  know  you  can,"  Stubener  assured 
him.  "  But  it  can't  be  arranged  that  way. 
You  've  got  to  take  them  one  at  a  time. 
Besides,  remember,  I  know  the  game  and 
I  'm  managing  you.  This  proposition  has 
to  be  worked  up,  and  I  'm  the  boy  that 
knows  how.  If  we  're  lucky,  you  may  get 
to  the  top  in  a  couple  of  years  and  be  the 
champion  with  a  mint  of  money." 

Pat  sighed  at  the  prospect,  then 
brightened  up. 

"  And  after  that  I  can  retire  and  go 
back  home  to  the  old  man,"  he  said. 
36 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Stubener  was  about  to  reply,  but 
checked  himself.  Strange  as  was  this 
championship  material,  he  felt  confident 
that  when  the  top  was  reached  it  would 
prove  very  similar  to  that  of  all  the  others 
who  had  gone  before.  Besides,  two 
years  was  a  long  way  off,  and  there  was 
much  to  be  done  in  the  meantime. 

When  Pat  fell  to  moping  around  his 
quarters,  reading  endless  poetry  books 
and  novels  drawn  from  the  public  library, 
Stubener  sent  him  off  to  live  on  a  Contra 
Costa  ranch  across  the  Bay,  under  the 
watchful  eye  of  Spider  Walsh.  At  the 
end  of  a  week  Spider  whispered  that  the 
job  was  a  cinch.  His  charge  was  away 
and  over  the  hills  from  dawn  till  dark, 
whipping  the  streams  for  trout,  shooting 
quail  and  rabbits,  and  pursuing  the  one 
lone  and  crafty  buck  famous  for  having 
survived  a  decade  of  hunters.  It  was 
the  Spider  who  waxed  lazy  and  fat,  while 
37 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

his  charge  kept  himself  in  condition. 
As  Stubener  expected,  his  unknown 
was  laughed  at  by  the  fight  club  man 
agers.  Were  not  the  woods  full  of  un 
knowns  who  were  always  breaking  out 
with  championship  rashes?  A  prelimi 
nary,  say  of  four  rounds  —  yes,  they 
would  grant  him  that.  But  the  main  event 
—  never.  Stubener  was  resolved  that 
young  Pat  should  make  his  debut  in  noth 
ing  less  than  a  main  event,  and,  by  the 
prestige  of  his  own  name  he  at  last  man 
aged  it.  With  much  misgiving,  the  Mis 
sion  Club  agreed  that  Pat  Glendon  could 
go  fifteen  rounds  with  Rough-House 
Kelly  for  a  purse  of  one  hundred  dollars. 
It  was  the  custom  of  young  fighters  to 
assume  the  names  of  old  ring  heroes, 
so  no  one  suspected  that  he  was  the 
son  of  the  great  Pat  Glendon,  while 
Stubener  held  his  peace.  It  was  a  good 
38 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

press  surprise  package  to  spring  later. 

Came  the  night  of  the  fight,  after  a 
month  of  waiting.  Stubener's  anxiety 
was  keen.  His  professional  reputation 
was  staked  that  his  man  would  make  a 
showing,  and  he  was  astounded  to  see 
Pat,  seated  in  his  corner  a  bare  five  min 
utes,  lose  the  healthy  color  from  his 
cheeks,  which  turned  a  sickly  yellow. 

"  Cheer  up,  boy,"  Stubener  said,  slap 
ping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  The  first 
time  in  the  ring  is  always  strange,  and 
Kelly  has  a  way  of  letting  his  opponent 
wait  for  him  on  the  chance  of  getting 
stage-fright." 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  Pat  answered.  "  It 's 
the  tobacco  smoke.  I  'm  not  used  to  it, 
and  it 's  making  me  fair  sick." 

His  manager  experienced  the  quick 
shock  of  relief.  A  man  who  turned  sick 
from  mental  causes,  even  if  he  were  a 
39 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Samson,  could  never  win  to  place  in  the 
prize  ring.  As  for  tobacco  smoke,  the 
youngster  would  have  to  get  used  to  it, 
that  was  all. 

Young  Pat's  entrance  into  the  ring  had 
been  met  with  silence,  but  when  Rough- 
House  Kelly  crawled  through  the  ropes 
his  greeting  was  uproarious.  He  did  not 
belie  his  name.  He  was  a  ferocious- 
looking  man,  black  and  hairy,  with  huge, 
knotty  muscles,  weighing  a  full  two  hun 
dred  pounds.  Pat  looked  across  at  him 
curiously,  and  received  a  savage  scowl. 
After  both  had  been  introduced  to  the 
audience,  they  shook  hands.  And  even 
as  their  gloves  gripped,  Kelly  ground  his 
teeth,  convulsed  his  face  with  an  expres 
sion  of  rage,  and  muttered: 

"  You  've  got  yer  nerve  wid  yeh."  He 
flung  Pat's  hand  roughly  from  his,  and 
hissed,  "  I  '11  eat  yeh  up,  ye  pup !  " 

The  audience  laughed  at  the  action, 
40 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

and  it  guessed  hilariously  at  what  Kelly 
must  have  said. 

Back  in  his  corner,  and  waiting  the 
gong,  Pat  turned  to  Stubener. 

"  Why  is  he  angry  with  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  ain  't,"  Stubener  answered. 
"  That 's  his  way,  trying  to  scare  you. 
It 's  just  mouth-fighting." 

"  It  is  n't  boxing,"  was  Pat's  comment ; 
and  Stubener,  with  a  quick  glance,  noted 
that  his  eyes  were  as  mildly  blue  as  ever. 

"  Be  careful,"  the  manager  warned,  as 
the  gong  for  the  first  round  sounded  and 
Pat  stood  up.  "  He  's  liable  to  come  at 
you  like  a  man-eater." 

And  like  a  man-eater  Kelly  did  come  at 
him,  rushing  across  the  ring  in  wild  fury. 
Pat,  who  in  his  easy  way  had  advanced 
only  a  couple  of  paces,  gauged  the  other's 
momentum,  side-stepped,  and  brought  his 
stiff-arched  right  across  to  the  jaw. 
Then  he  stood  and  looked  on  with  a  great 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

curiosity.  The  fight  was  over.  Kelly 
had  fallen  like  a  stricken  bullock  to  the 
floor,  and  there  he  lay  without  movement 
while  the  referee,  bending  over  him, 
shouted  the  ten  seconds  in  his  unheeding 
ear.  When  Kelly's  seconds  came  to  lift 
him,  Pat  was  before  them.  Gathering 
the  huge,  inert  bulk  of  the  man  in  his 
arms,  he  carried  him  to  his  corner  and 
deposited  him  on  the  stool  and  in  the 
arms  of  his  seconds. 

Half  a  minute  later,  Kelly's  head  lifted 
and  his  eyes  wavered  open.  He  looked 
about  him  stupidly  and  then  to  one  of  his 
seconds. 

"  What  happened?  "  he  queried  hoarse 
ly.  "  Did  the  roof  fall  on  me?  " 


42 


IV 


AS  a  result  of  his  fight  with  Kelly, 
though  the  general  opinion  was 
that  he  had  won  by  a  fluke,  Pat 
was  matched  with  -Rufe   Mason.    This 
took  place   three  weeks  later,  and  the 
Sierra  Club  audience  at  Dreamland  Rink 
failed  to  see  what  happened.     Rufe  Ma 
son  was  a  heavyweight,  noted  locally  for 
his  cleverness.     When  the  gong  for  the 
first  round  sounded,  both  men  met  in  the 
center  of  the  ring.    Neither  rushed.    Nor 
did  they  strike  a  blow.    They  felt  around 
each  other,  their  arms  bent,  their  gloves 
so    close    together    that    they    almost 
touched.     This   lasted   for  perhaps   five 
seconds.     Then    it    happened,    and    so 
quickly  that  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  the 
43 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

audience  saw.  Rufe  Mason  made  a  feint 
with  his  right.  It  was  obviously  not  a 
real  feint,  but  a  feeler,  a  mere  tentative 
threatening  of  a  possible  blow.  It  was 
at  this  instant  that  Pat  loosed  his  punch. 
So  close  together  were  they  that  the  dis 
tance  the  blow  traveled  was  a  scant  eight 
inches.  It  was  a  short-arm  left  jolt,  and 
it  was  accomplished  by  a  twist  of  the  left 
forearm  and  a  thrust  of  the  shoulder.  It 
landed  flush  on  the  point  of  the  chin  and 
the  astounded  audience  saw  Rufe  Mason's 
legs  crumple  under  him  as  his  body  sank 
to  the  floor.  But  the  referee  had  seen, 
and  he  promptly  proceeded  to  count  him 
out.  Again  Pat  carried  his  opponent  to 
his  corner,  and  it  was  ten  minutes  before 
Rufe  Mason,  supported  by  his  seconds, 
with  sagging  knees  and  rolling,  glassy 
eyes,  was  able  to  move  down  the  aisle 
through  the  stupefied  and  incredulous  au 
dience  on  the  way  to  his  dressing  room. 
44 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  No  wonder,"  he  told  a  reporter,  "  that 
Rough-House  Kelly  thought  the  roof  hit 
him." 

After  Chub  Collins  had  been  put  out  in 
the  twelfth  second  of  the  first  round  of 
a  fifteen-round  contest,  Stubener  felt  com 
pelled  to  speak  to  Pat. 

"  Do  you  know  what  they  're  calling 
you  now?  "  he  asked. 

Pat  shook  his  head. 

"  One  Punch  Glendon," 

Pat  smiled  politely.  He  was  little  in 
terested  in  what  he  was  called.  He  had 
certain  work  cut  out  which  he  must  do 
ere  he  could  win  back  to  his  mountains, 
and  he  was  phlegmatically  doing  it,  that 
was  all. 

"  It  won't  do,"  his  manager  continued, 
with  an  ominous  shake  of  the  head. 
!<  You  can't  go  on  putting  your  men  out 
so  quickly.  You  must  give  them  more 


time." 


45 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  I  'm  here  to  fight,  ain't  I?  "  Pat  de 
manded  in  surprise. 

Again  Stubener  shook  his  head. 

"  It 's  this  way,  Pat.  You  've  got  to  be 
big  and  generous  in  the  fighting  game. 
Don't  get  all  the  other  fighters  sore. 
And  it 's  not  fair  to  the  audience.  They 
want  a  run  for  their  money.  Besides,  no 
one  will  fight  you.  They  '11  all  be  scared 
out.  And  you  can't  draw  crowds  with 
ten-second  fights.  I  leave  it  to  you. 
Would  you  pay  a  dollar,  or  five,  to  see  a 
ten-second  fight?  " 

Pat  was  convinced,  and  he  promised  to 
give  future  audiences  the  requisite  run 
for  their  money,  though  he  stated  that, 
personally,  he  preferred  going  fishing  to 
witnessing  a  hundred  rounds  of  fighting. 

And  still,  Pat  had  got  practically  no 
where  in  the  game.  The  local  sports 
laughed  when  his  name  was  mentioned. 
It  called  to  mind  funny  fights  and  Rough- 
46 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

House  Kelly's  remark  about  the  roof. 
Nobody  knew  how  Pat  could  fight. 
They  had  never  seen  him.  Where  was 
his  wind,  his  stamina,  his  ability  to  mix 
it  with  rough  customers  through  long 
grueling  contests?  He  had  demonstrated 
nothing  but  the  possession  of  a  lucky 
punch  and  a  depressing  proclivity  for 
flukes. 

So  it  was  that  his  fourth  match  was 
arranged  with  Pete  Sosso,  a  Portuguese 
fighter  from  Butchertown,  known  only 
for  the  amazing  tricks  he  played  in  the 
ring.  Pat  did  not  train  for  the  fight.  In 
stead  he  made  a  flying  and  sorrowful  trip 
to  the  mountains  to  bury  his  father.  Old 
Pat  had  known  well  the  condition  of  his 
heart,  and  it  had  stopped  suddenly  on 
him. 

Young  Pat  arrived  back  in  San 
Francisco  with  so  close  a  margin  of  time 
that  he  changed  into  his  fighting  togs 
47 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

directly  from  his  traveling  suit,  and  even 
then  the  audience  was  kept  waiting  ten 
minutes. 

"  Remember,  give  him  a  chance," 
Stubener  cautioned  him  as  he  climbed 
through  the  ropes.  "  Play  with  him,  but 
do  it  seriously.  Let  him  go  ten  or  twelve 
rounds,  then  get  him." 

Pat  obeyed  instructions,  and,  though  it 
would  have  been  easy  enough  to  put 
Sosso  out,  so  tricky  was  he  that  to  stand 
up  to  him  and  not  put  him  out  kept  his 
hands  full.  It  was  a  pretty  exhibition, 
and  the  audience  was  delighted.  Sosso's 
whirlwind  attacks,  wild  feints,  retreats, 
and  rushes,  required  all  Pat's  science  to 
protect  himself,  and  even  then  he  did  not 
escape  unscathed. 

Stubener  praised  him  in  the  minute- 
rests,  and  all  would  have  been  well,  had 
not  Sosso,  in  the  fourth  round,  played  one 
of  his  most  spectacular  tricks.  Pat,  in  a 
48 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

mix-up,  had  landed  a  hook  to  Sosso's 
jaw,  when  to  his  amazement,  the  latter 
dropped  his  hands  and  reeled  backward, 
eyes  rolling,  legs  bending  and  giving,  in 
a  high  state  of  grogginess.  Pat  could 
not  understand.  It  had  not  been  a 
knock-out  blow,  and  yet  there  was  his 
man  all  ready  to  fall  to  the  mat.  Pat 
dropped  his  own  hands  and  wonderingly 
watched  his  reeling  opponent.  Sosso 
staggered  away,  almost  fell,  recovered, 
and  staggered  obliquely  and  blindly  for 
ward  again. 

For  the  first  and  the  last  time  in  his 
fighting  career,  Pat  was  caught  off  his 
guard.  He  actually  stepped  aside  to  let 
the  reeling  man  go  by.  Still  reeling,  Sos 
so  suddenly  loosed  his  right.  Pat  received 
it  full  on  his  jaw  with  an  impact  that  rat 
tled  all  his  teeth.  A  great  roar  of  delight 
went  up  from  the  audience.  But  Pat  did 
not  hear.  He  saw  only  Sosso  before  him, 
49 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

grinning  and  defiant,  and  not  the  least  bit 
groggy:  Pat  was  hurt  by  the  blow,  but 
vastly  more  outraged  by  the  trick.  All 
the  wrath  that  his  father  ever  had  surged 
up  in  him.  He  shook  his  head  as  if  to  get 
rid  of  the  shock  of  the  blow  and  steadied 
himself  before  his  man.  It  all  occurred 
in  the  next  second.  With  a  feint  that 
drew  his  opponent,  Pat  fetched  his  left  to 
the  solar  plexus,  almost  at  the  same  in 
stant  whipping  his  right  across  to  the  jaw. 
The  latter  blow  landed  on  Sosso's  mouth 
ere  his  falling  body  struck  the  floor.  The 
club  doctors  worked  half  an  hour  to  bring 
him  to.  After  that  they  put  eleven 
stitches  in  his  mouth  and  packed  him  off 
in  an  ambulance. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  Pat  told  his  manager, 
"  I  'm  afraid  I  lost  my  temper.  I  '11  never 
do  it  again  in  the  ring.  Dad  always  cau 
tioned  me  about  it.  He  said  it  had  made 
him  lose  more  than  one  battle.  I  did  n't 
50 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

know  I  could  lose  my  temper  that  way, 
but  now  that  I  know  I  '11  keep  it  in  con 
trol." 

And  Stubener  believed  him.  He  was 
coming  to  the  stage  where  he  could 
believe  anything  about  his  young 
charge. 

"  You  don't  need  to  get  angry,"  he  said, 
"  you  're  so  thoroughly  the  master  of 
your  man  at  any  stage." 

"  At  any  inch  or  second  of  the  fight," 
Pat  affirmed. 

"  And  you  can  put  them  out  any  time 
you  want." 

"  Sure  I  can.  I  don't  want  to  boast. 
But  I  just  seem  to  possess  the  ability. 
My  eyes  show  me  the  opening  that  my 
skill  knows  how  to  make,  and  time  and 
distance  are  second  nature  to  me.  Dad 
called  it  a  gift,  but  I  thought  he  was 
blarneying  me.  Now  that  I  've  been  up 
against  these  men,  I  guess  he  was  right. 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

He  said  I  had  the  mind  and  muscle  cor 
relation." 

"At  any  inch  or  second  of  the  fight," 
Stubener  repeated  musingly. 

Pat  nodded,  and  Stubener,  absolutely 
believing  him,  caught  a  vision  of  a  golden 
future  that  should  have  fetched  old  Pat 
out  of  his  grave. 

"  Well,  don't  forget,  we  Ve  got  to  give 
the  crowd  a  run  for  its  money,"  he  said. 
"  We  '11  fix  it  up  between  us  how  many 
rounds  a  fight  should  go.  Now  your  next 
bout  will  be  with  the  Flying  Dutchman. 
Suppose  you  let  it  run  the  full  fifteen  and 
put  him  out  in  the  last  round.  That  will 
give  you  a  chance  to  make  a  showing  as 
well." 

"  All  right,  Sam,"  was  the  answer. 

"  It  will  be  a  test  for  you,"  Stubener 
warned.  "  You  may  fail  to  put  him  out 
in  that  last  round." 

"Watch  me."  Pat  paused  to  put 
52 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

weight  to  his  promise,  and  picked  up  a 
volume  of  Longfellow.  "  If  I  don't  I  '11 
never  read  poetry  again,  and  that 's  going 
some." 

"  You  bet  it  is,"  his  manager  pro 
claimed  jubilantly,  "  though  what  you  see 
in  such  stuff  is  beyond  me." 

Pat  sighed,  but  did  not  reply.  In  all 
his  life  he  had  found  but  one  person  who 
cared  for  poetry,  and  that  had  been  the 
red-haired  school  teacher  who  scared  him 
off  into  the  woods. 


53 


'  T  IT  THERE  are  you  going?  "  Stube- 

^y^7  ner  demanded  in  surprise, 
looking  at  his  watch. 

Pat,  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob, 
paused  and  turned  around. 

"  To  the  Academy  of  Sciences,"  he  said. 
"  There 's  a  professor  who  's  going  to 
give  a  lecture  there  on  Browning  to 
night,  and  Browning  is  the  sort  of  writer 
you  need  assistance  with.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  ought  to  go  to  night  school." 

"But  great  Scott,  man!"  exclaimed 
the  horrified  manager.  "  You  're  on  with 
the  Flying  Dutchman  to-night."  ,  - 

"  I  know  it.  But  I  won't  enter  the  ring 
a  moment  before  half  past  nine  or  quar 
ter  to  ten.  The  lecture  will  be  over  at 
54 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

nine  fifteen.  If  you  want  to  make  sure, 
come  around  and  pick  me  up  in  your  ma 
chine." 

Stubener  shrugged  his  shoulders  help 
lessly. 

"  You  Ve  got  no  kick  coming,"  Pat  as 
sured  him.  "  Dad  used  to  tell  me  a  man's 
worst  time  was  in  the  hours  just  before 
a  fight,  and  that  many  a  fight  was  lost  by 
a  man's  breaking  down  right  there,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  think  and  be  anxious. 
Well,  you  '11  never  need  to  worry  about 
me  that  way.  You  ought  to  be  glad  I 
can  go  off  to  a  lecture." 

And  later  that  night,  in  the  course  of 
watching  fifteen  splendid  rounds,  Stube 
ner  chuckled  to  himself  more  than  once 
at  the  idea  of  what  that  audience  of 
sports  would  think,  did  it  know  that  this 
magnificent  young  prize-fighter  had  come 
to  the  ring  directly  from  a  Browning  lec 
ture. 

55 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

The  Flying  Dutchman  was  a  young 
Swede  who  possessed  an  unwonted  wil 
lingness  to  fight  and  who  was  blessed 
with  phenomenal  endurance.  He  never 
rested,  was  always  on  the  offensive,  and 
rushed  and  fought  from  gong  to  gong. 
In  the  out-fighting  his  arms  whirled 
about  like  flails,  in  the  in-fighting  he  was 
forever  shouldering  or  half-wrestling  and 
starting  blows  whenever  he  could  get  a 
hand  free.  From  start  to  finish  he  was  a 
whirlwind,  hence  his  name.  His  failing 
was  lack  of  judgment  in  time  and  dis 
tance.  Nevertheless  he  had  won  many 
fights  by  virtue  of  landing  one  in  each 
dozen  or  so  of  the  unending  fusillades  of 
punches  he  delivered.  Pat,  with  strong 
upon  him  the  caution  that  he  must  not 
put  his  opponent  out,  was  kept  busy. 
Nor,  though  he  escaped  vital  damage, 
could  he  avoid  entirely  those  eternal 
flying  gloves.  But  it  was  good  training, 
56 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

and  in  a  mild  way  he  enjoyed  the  con 
test. 

"  Could  you  get  him  now?  "  Stubener 
whispered  in  his  ear  during  the  minute 
rest  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  round. 

"  Sure,"  was  Pat's  answer. 

"  You  know  he 's  never  yet  been 
knocked  out  by  any  one,"  Stubener 
warned  a  couple  of  rounds  later. 

"  Then  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  have  to  break 
my  knuckles,"  Pat  smiled.  "  I  know  the 
punch  I  've  got  in  me,  and  when  I  land  it 
something  's  got  to  go.  If  he  won't,  my 
knuckles  will." 

"Do  you  think  you  could  get  him 
now?  "  Stubener  asked  at  the  end  of  the 
thirteenth  round. 

"  Any  time,  I  tell  you." 

"  Well,  then,  Pat,  let  him  run  to  the 
fifteenth/' 

In   the   fourteenth    round   the    Flying 
Dutchman    exceeded    himself.     At    the 
57 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

stroke  of  the  gong  he  rushed  clear  across 
the  ring  to  the  opposite  corner  where  Pat 
was  leisurely  getting  to  his  feet.  The 
house  cheered,  for  it  knew  the  Flying 
Dutchman  had  cut  loose.  Pat,  catching 
the  fun  of  it,  whimsically  decided  to  meet 
the  terrific  onslaught  with  a  wholly  pas 
sive  defense  and  not  to  strike  a  blow. 
Nor  did  he  strike  a  blow,  nor  feint  a  blow, 
during  the  three  minutes  of  whirlwind 
that  followed.  He  gave  a  rare  exhibition 
of  stalling,  sometimes  hugging  his  bowed 
face  with  his  left  arm,  his  abdomen  with 
his  right ;  at  other  times,  changing  as  the 
point  of  attack  changed,  so  that  both 
gloves  were  held  on  either  side  his  face, 
or  both  elbows  and  forearms  guarded  his 
mid-section;  and  all  the  time  moving 
about,  clumsily  shouldering,  or  half-fall 
ing  forward  against  his  opponent  and 
clogging  his  efforts;  himself  never  strik 
ing  nor  threatening  to  strike,  the  while 
58 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

rocking  with  the  impacts  of  the  storming 
blows  that  beat  upon  his  various  guards 
the  devil's  own  tattoo. 

Those  close  at  the  ringside  saw  and  ap 
preciated,  but  the  rest  of  the  audience, 
fooled,  arose  to  its  feet  and  roared  its  ap 
plause  in  the  mistaken  notion  that  Pat, 
helpless,  was  receiving  a  terrible  beating. 
With  the  end  of  the  round,  the  audience, 
dumbfounded,  sank  back  into  its  seats  as 
Pat  walked  steadily  to  his  corner.  It 
was  not  understandable.  He  should 
have  been  beaten  to  a  pulp,  and  yet  noth 
ing  had  happened  to  him. 

"  Now  are  you  going  to  get  him? " 
Stubener  queried  anxiously. 

"  Inside  ten  seconds,"  was  Pat's  con 
fident  assertion.  "  Watch  me." 

There  was  no  trick  about  it.     When 

the  gong  struck  and  Pat  bounded  to  his 

feet,  he  advertised  it  unmistakably  that 

for  the  first  time  in  the  fight  he  was  start- 

59 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

ing  after  his  man.  Not  one  onlooker  mis 
understood.  The  Flying  Dutchman  read 
the  advertisement,  too,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  career,  as  they  met  in  the  cen 
ter  of  the  ring,  visibly  hesitated.  For  the 
fraction  of  a  second  they  faced  each  other 
in  position.  Then  the  Flying  Dutchman 
leaped  forward  upon  his  man,  and  Pat, 
with  a  timed  right-cross,  dropped  him 
cold  as  he  leaped. 

It  was  after  this  battle  that  Pat  Glen- 
don  started  on  his  upward  rush  to  fame. 
The  sports  and  the  sporting  writers  took 
him  up.  For  the  first  time  the  Flying 
Dutchman  had  been  knocked  out.  His 
conqueror  had  proved  a  wizard  of  de 
fense.  His  previous  victories  had  not 
been  flukes.  He  had  a  kick  in  both  his 
hands.  Giant  that  he  was,  he  would  go 
far.  The  time  was  already  past,  the 
writers  asserted,  for  him  to  waste  him 
self  on  the  third-raters  and  chopping 
60 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

blocks.  Where  were  Ben  Menzies,  Rege 
Rede,  Bill  Tarwater,  and  Ernest  Lawson? 
It  was  time  for  them  to  meet  this  young 
cub  that  had  suddenly  shown  himself  a 
fighter  of  quality.  Where  was  his  man 
ager  anyway,  that  he  was  not  issuing  the 
challenges? 

And  then  fame  came  in  a  day;  for 
Stubener  divulged  the  secret  that  his  man 
was  none  other  than  the  son  of  Pat  Glen- 
don,  Old  Pat,  the  old-time  ring  hero. 
"  Young  "  Pat  Glendon,  he  was  promptly 
christened,  and  sports  and  writers  flocked 
about  him  to  admire  him,  and  back  him, 
and  write  him  up. 

Beginning  with  Ben  Menzies  and 
finishing  with  Bill  Tarwater,  he  chal 
lenged,  fought,  and  knocked  out  the  four 
second-raters.  To  do  this,  he  was  com 
pelled  to  travel,  the  battles  taking  place 
m  Goldfield,  Denver,  Texas,  and  New 
York.  To  accomplish  it  required  months, 
61 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

for  the  bigger  fights  were  not  easily  ar 
ranged,  and  the  men  themselves  de 
manded  more  time  for  training. 

The  second  year  saw  him  running  to 
cover  and  disposing  of  the  half-dozen  big 
fighters  that  clustered  just  beneath  the 
top  of  the  heavyweight  ladder.  On  this 
top,  firmly  planted,  stood  "Big"  Jim 
Hanford,  the  undefeated  world  champion. 
Here,  on  the  top  rungs,  progress  was 
slower,  though  Stubener  was  indefati 
gable  in  issuing  challenges  and  in  promot 
ing  sporting  opinion  to  force  the  man  to 
fight.  Will  King  was  disposed  of  in 
England,  and  Glendon  pursued  Tom  Har 
rison  half  way  around  the  world  to  defeat 
him  on  Boxing  Day  in  Australia. 

But  the  purses  grew  larger  and  larger. 
In  place  of  a  hundred  dollars,  such  as  his 
first  battles  had  earned  him,  he  was  now 
receiving  from  twenty  to  thirty  thousand 
dollars  a  fight,  as  well  as  equally  large 
62 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

sums  from  the  moving  picture  men. 
Stubener  took  his  manager's  percentage 
of  all  this,  according  to  the  terms  of  the 
contract  old  Pat  had  drawn  up,  and  both 
he  and  Glendon,  despite  their  heavy  ex 
penses,  were  waxing  rich.  This  was  due, 
more  than  anything  else,  to  the  clean  lives 
they  lived.  They  were  not  wasters. 

Stubener  was  attracted  to  real  estate, 
and  his  holdings  in  San  Francisco,  con 
sisting  of  building  flats  and  apartment 
houses,  were  bigger  than  Glendon  ever 
dreamed.  There  was  a  secret  syndicate 
of  bettors,  however,  which  could  have 
made  an  accurate  guess  at  the  size  of 
Stubener's  holdings,  while  heavy  bonus 
after  heavy  bonus,  of  which  Glendon 
never  heard,  was  paid  over  to  his  man 
ager  by  the  moving  picture  men. 

Stubener 's  most  serious  task  was  in 
maintaining  the  innocence  of  his  young 
gladiator.  Nor  did  he  find  it  difficult. 
63 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Glendon,  who  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
business  end,  was  little  interested.  Be 
sides,  wherever  his  travels  took  him,  he 
spent  his  spare  time  in  hunting  and  fish 
ing.  He  rarely  mingled  with  those  of  the 
sporting  world,  was  notoriously  shy  and 
secluded,  and  preferred  art  galleries  and 
books  of  verse  to  sporting  gossip.  Also, 
his  trainers  and  sparring  partners  were 
rigorously  instructed  by  the  manager  to 
keep  their  tongues  away  from  the  slight 
est  hints  of  ring  rottenness.  In  every 
way  Stubener  intervened  between  Glen 
don  and  the  world.  He  was  never  even 
interviewed  save  in  Stubener's  presence. 
Only  once  was  Glendon  approached. 
It  was  just  prior  to  his  battle  with  Hen 
derson,  and  an  offer  of  a  hundred  thou 
sand  was  made  to  him  to  throw  the  fight. 
It  was  made  hurriedly,  in  swift  whispers, 
in  a  hotel  corridor,  and  it  was  fortunate 
for  the  man  that  Pat  controlled  his  tem- 
64 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

per  and  shouldered  past  him  without  re 
ply.  He  brought  the  tale  of  it  to  Stube- 
ner,  who  said: 

"  It 's  only  con,  Pat.  They  were  trying 
to  josh  you."  He  noted  the  blue  eyes 
blaze.  "And  maybe  worse  than  that. 
If  they  could  have  got  you  to  fall  for  it, 
there  might  have  been  a  big  sensation  in 
the  papers  that  would  have  finished  you. 
But  I  doubt  it.  Such  things  don't  hap 
pen  any  more.  It 's  a  myth,  that 's  what 
it  is,  that  has  come  down  from  the  middle 
history  of  the  ring.  There  has  been  rot 
tenness  in  the  past,  but  no  fighter  or  man 
ager  of  reputation  would  dare  anything 
of  the  sort  to-day.  Why,  Pat,  the  men 
in  the  game  are  as  clean  and  straight  as 
those  in  professional  baseball,  than  which 
there  is  nothing  cleaner  or  straighten" 

And  all  the  while  he  talked,  Stubener 
knew  in  his  heart  that  the  forthcoming 
fight  with  Henderson  was  not  to  be 
65 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

shorter  than  twelve  rounds  —  this  for  the 
moving  pictures  —  and  not  longer  than 
the  fourteenth  round.  And  he  knew, 
furthermore,  so  big  were  the  stakes  in 
volved,  that  Henderson  himself  was 
pledged  not  to  last  beyond  the  four 
teenth. 

And  Glendon,  never  approached  again, 
dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind  and 
went  out  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  taking 
color  photographs.  The  camera  had  be 
come  his  latest  hobby.  Loving  pictures, 
yet  unable  to  paint,  he  had  compromised 
by  taking  up  photography.  In  his  hand 
baggage  was  one  grip  packed  with  books 
on  the  subject,  and  he  spent  long  hours  in 
the  dark  room,  realizing  for  himself  the 
various  processes.  Never  had  there  been 
a  great  fighter  who  was  as  aloof  from  the 
fighting  world  as  he.  Because  he  had 
little  to  say  with  those  he  encoun 
tered,  he  was  called  sullen  and  unsocial, 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

and  out  of  this  a  newspaper  reputation 
took  form  that  was  not  an  exaggeration 
so  much  as  it  was  an  entire  misconcep 
tion.  Boiled  down,  his  character  in  print 
was  that  of  an  ox-muscled  and  dumbly 
stupid  brute,  and  one  callow  sporting 
writer  dubbed  him  the  "  abysmal  brute." 
The  name  stuck.  The  rest  of  the  frater 
nity  hailed  it  with  delight,  and  thereafter 
Glendon's  name  never  appeared  in  print 
unconnected  with  it.  Often,  in  a  headline 
or  under  a  photograph,  "  The  Abysmal 
Brute/'  capitalized  and  without  quotation 
marks,  appeared  alone.  All  the  world 
knew  who  was  this  brute.  This  made 
him  draw  into  himself  closer  than  ever, 
while  it  developed  a  bitter  prejudice 
against  newspaper  folk. 

Regarding   fighting   itself,   his   earlier 

mild  interest  grew  stronger.    The  men  he 

now  fought  were  anything  but  dubs,  and 

victory  did  not  come  so  easily.     They 

67 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

were  picked  men,  experienced  ring  gen 
erals,  and  each  battle  was  a  problem. 
There  were  occasions  when  he  found  it 
impossible  to  put  them  out  in  any  des 
ignated  later  round  of  a  fight.  Thus, 
with  Sulzberger,  the  gigantic  German, 
try  as  he  would  in  the  eighteenth  round, 
he  failed  to  get  him,  in  the  nineteenth  it 
was  the  same  story,  and  not  till  the 
twentieth  did  he  manage  to  break 
through  the  baffling  guard  and  drop  him. 
Glendon's  increasing  enjoyment  of  the 
game  was  accompanied  by  severer  and 
prolonged  training.  Never  dissipating, 
spending  much  of  his  time  on  hunting 
trips  in  the  hills,  he  was  practically  al 
ways  in  the  pink  of  condition,  and,  unlike 
his  father,  no  unfortunate  accidents 
marred  his  career.  He  never  broke  a 
bone,  nor  injured  so  much  as  a  knuckle. 
One  thing  that  Stubener  noted  with 
secret  glee  was  that  his  young  fighter  no 
68 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

longer  talked  of  going  permanently  back 
to  his  mountains  when  he  had  won  the 
championship  away  from  Jim  Hanford. 


69 


VI 

THE  consummation  of  his  career 
was  rapidly  approaching.  The 
great  champion  had  even  pub 
licly  intimated  his  readiness  to  take 
on  Glendon  as  soon  as  the  latter 
had  disposed  of  the  three  or  four 
aspirants  for  the  championship  who  in 
tervened.  In  six  months  Pat  managed  to 
put  away  Kid  McGrath  and  Philadelphia 
Jack  McBride,  and  there  remained  only 
Nat  Powers  and  Tom  Cannam.  And 
all  would  have  been  well  had  not  a  cer 
tain  society  girl  gone  adventuring  into 
journalism,  and  had  not  Stubener  agreed 
to  an  interview  with  the  woman  re 
porter  of  the  San  Francisco  "  Courier- 
Journal." 

70 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Her  work  was  always  published  over 
the  name  of  Maud  Sangster,  which,  by 
the  way,  was  her  own  name.  The  Sangs- 
ters  were  a  notoriously  wealthy  family. 
The  founder,  old  Jacob  Sangster,  had 
packed  his  blankets  and  worked  as  a 
farm-hand  in  the  West.  He  had  dis 
covered  an  inexhaustible  borax  deposit  in 
Nevada,  and,  from  hauling  it  out  by  mule- 
teams,  had  built  a  railroad  to  do  the 
freighting.  Following  that,  he  had 
poured  the  profits  of  borax  into  the  pur 
chase  of  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
square  miles  of  timber  lands  in  California, 
Oregon,  and  Washington.  Still  later,  he 
had  combined  politics  with  business, 
bought  statesmen,  judges,  and  machines, 
and  become  a  captain  of  complicated  in 
dustry.  .  And  after  that  he  had  died,  full 
of  honor  and  pessimism,  leaving  his  name 
a  muddy  blot  for  future  historians  to 
smudge,  and  also  leaving  a  matter  of  a 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

couple  of  hundreds  of  millions  for  his 
four  sons  to  squabble  over.  The  legal,  in 
dustrial,  and  political  battles  that  fol 
lowed,  vexed  and  amused  California  for 
a  generation,  and  culminated  in  deadly 
hatred  and  unspeaking  terms  between  the 
four  sons.  The  youngest,  Theodore,  in 
middle  life  experienced  a  change  of  heart, 
sold  out  his  stock  farms  and  racing 
stables,  and  plunged  into  a  fight  with  all 
the  corrupt  powers  of  his  native  state,  in 
cluding  most  of  its  millionaires,  in  a 
quixotic  attempt  to  purge  it  of  the  infamy 
which  had  been  implanted  by  old  Jacob 
Sangster. 

Maud  Sangster  was  Theodore's  oldest 
daughter.  The  Sangster  stock  uniformly 
bred  fighters  among  the  men  and  beauties 
among  the  women.  Nor  was  Maud  an 
exception.  Also,  she  must  have  inherited 
some  of  the  virus  of  adventure  from  the 
Sangster  breed,  for  she  had  come  to  wo- 
72 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

manhood  and  done  a  multitude  of  things 
of  which  no  woman  in  her  position  should 
have  been  guilty.  A  match  in  ten  thou 
sand,  she  remained  unmarried.  She  had 
sojourned  in  Europe  without  bringing 
home  a  nobleman  for  spouse,  and  had  de 
clined  a  goodly  portion  of  her  own  set  at 
home.  She  had  gone  in  for  outdoor 
sports,  won  the  tennis  championship  of 
the  state,  kept  the  society  weeklies  agog 
with  her  unconventionalities,  walked 
from  San  Mateo  to  Santa  Cruz  against 
time  on  a  wager,  and  once  caused  a  sen 
sation  by  playing  polo  in  a  men's  team  at 
a  private  Burlingame  practice  game.  In 
cidentally,  she  had  gone  in  for  art,  and 
maintained  a  studio  in  San  Francisco's 
Latin  Quarter. 

All  this  had  been  of  little  moment  until 
her  father's  reform  attack  became  acute. 
Passionately  independent,  never  yet  hav 
ing  met  the   man  to  whom  she  could 
73 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

/ 
gladly     submit,     and    bored    by    those 

who  had  aspired,  she  resented  her 
father's  interference  with  her  way 
of  life  and  put  the  climax  on  all 
her  social  misdeeds  by  leaving  home  and 
going  to  work  on  the  "  Courier-Journal." 
Beginning  at  twenty  dollars  a  week,  her 
salary  had  swiftly  risen  to  fifty.  Her 
work  was  principally  musical,  dramatic, 
and  art  criticism,  though  she  was  not 
above  mere  journalistic  stunts  if  they 
promised  to  be  sufficiently  interesting. 
Thus  she  scooped  the  big  interview  with 
Morgan  at  a  time  when  he  was  being 
futilely  trailed  by  a  dozen  New  York  star 
journalists,  went  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  Golden  Gate  in  a  diver's  suit,  and  flew 
with  Rood,  the  bird  man,  when  he  broke 
all  records  of  continuous  flight  by  reach 
ing  as  far  as  Riverside. 

Now    it   must   not   be   imagined   that 
Maud  Sangster  was  a  hard-bitten  Ama- 
74 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

zon.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  a  gray- 
eyed,  slender  young  woman,  of  three  or 
four  and  twenty,  of  medium  stature,  and 
possessing  uncommonly  small  hands  and 
feet  for  an  outdoor  woman  or  any  other 
kind  of  a  woman.  Also,  far  in  excess  of 
most  outdoor  women,  she  knew  how  to 
be  daintily  feminine. 

It  was  on  her  own  suggestion  that  she 
received  the  editor's  commission  to  in 
terview  Pat  Glendon.  With  the  excep 
tion  of  having  caught  a  glimpse,  once,  of 
Bob  Fitzsimmons  in  evening  dress  at  the 
Palace  Grill,  she  had  never  seen  a  prize 
fighter  in  her  life.  Nor  was  she  curious 
to  see  one  —  at  least  she  had  not  been 
curious  until  Young  Pat  Glendon  came 
to  San  Francisco  to  train  for  his  fight 
with  Nat  Powers.  Then  his  newspaper 
reputation  had  aroused  her.  The  Abys 
mal  Brute !  —  it  certainly  must  be  worth 
seeing.  From  what  she  read  of  him  she 
75 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

gleaned  that  he  was  a  man-monster,  pro 
foundly  stupid  and  with  the  sullenness 
and  ferocity  of  a  jungle  beast.  True,  his 
published  photographs  did  not  show  all 
that,  but  they  did  show  the  hugeness  of 
brawn  that  might  be  expected  to  go  with 
it.  And  so,  accompanied  by  a  staff  pho 
tographer,  she  went  out  to  the  training 
quarters  at  the  Cliff  House  at  the  hour 
appointed  by  Stubener. 

That  real  estate  owner  was  having 
trouble.  Pat  was  rebellious.  He  sat, 
one  big  leg  dangling  over  the  side  of  the 
arm  chair  and  Shakespeare's  Sonnets 
face  downward  on  his  knee,  orating 
against  the  new  woman. 

"  What  do  they  want  to  come  butting 
into  the  game  for?  "  he  demanded.  "  It 's 
not  their  place.  What  do  they  know 
about  it  anyway?  The  men  are  bad 
enough  as  it  is.  I  'm  not  a  holy  show. 
This  woman's  coming  here  to  make  me 
76 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

one.  I  never  have  stood  for  women 
around  the  training  quarters,  and  I  don't 
care  if  she  is  a  reporter." 

"  But  she  's  not  an  ordinary  reporter," 
Stubener  interposed.  "  You  've  heard  of 
the  Sangsters?  —  the  millionaires?" 

Pat  nodded. 

"  Well,  she  's  one  of  them.  She  's  high 
society  and  all  that  stuff.  She  could  be 
running  with  the  Blingum  crowd  now  if 
she  wanted  to  instead  of  working  for 
wages.  Her  old  man's  worth  fifty  mil 
lions  if  he  's  worth  a  cent." 

"  Then  what 's  she  working  on  a  papei 
for?  —  keeping  some  poor  devil  out  of  a 
job." 

"  She  and  the  old  man  fell  out,  had  a 
tiff  or  something,  about  the  time  he 
started  to  clean  up  San  Francisco.  She 
quit.  That 's  all  —  left  home  and  got  a 
job.  And  let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  Pat: 
she  can  everlastingly  sling  English. 
77 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

There  is  n't  a  pen-pusher  on  the  Coast 
can  touch  her  when  she  gets  going." 

Pat  began  to  show  interest,  and  Stube- 
ner  hurried  on. 

"  She  writes  poetry,  too  —  the  regular 
la-de-dah  stuff,  just  like  you.  Only  I 
guess  hers  is  better,  because  she  pub 
lished  a  whole  book  of  it  once.  And  she 
writes  up  the  shows.  She  interviews 
every  big  actor  that  hits  this  burg." 

"  I  've  seen  her  name  in  the  papers," 
Pat  commented. 

"  Sure  you  have.  And  you  're  hon 
ored,  Pat,  by  her  coming  to  interview 
you.  It  won't  bother  you  any.  I  '11  stick 
right  by  and  give  her  most  of  the  dope 
myself.  You  know  I  've  always  done 
that." 

Pat  looked  his  gratitude. 

"  And  another  thing,  Pat :  don't  forget 
you  've  got  to  put  up  with  this  interview 
ing.  It 's  part  of  your  business.  It 's 
78 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

big  advertising,  and  it  comes  free.  We 
can't  buy  it.  It  interests  people,  draws 
the  crowds,  and  it 's  crowds  that  pile  up 
the  gate  receipts."  He  stopped  and 
listened,  then  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I 
think  that 's  her  now.  I  '11  go  and  get 
her  and  bring  her  in.  I  '11  tip  it  off  to  her 
to  cut  it  short,  you  know,  and  it  won't 
take  long."  He  turned  in  the  doorway. 
"  And  be  decent,  Pat.  Don't  shut  up  like 
a  clam.  Talk  a  bit  to  her  when  she  asks 
you  questions." 

Pat  put  the  Sonnets  on  the  table,  took 
up  a  newspaper,  and  was  apparently  deep 
in  its  contents  when  the  two  entered  the 
room  and  he  stood  up.  The  meeting  was 
a  mutual  shock.  When  blue  eyes  met 
gray,  it  was  almost  as  if  the  man  and  the 
woman  shouted  triumphantly  to  each 
other,  as  if  each  had  found  something 
sought  and  unexpected.  But  this  was 
for  the  instant  only.  Each  had  an- 
79 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

ticipated  in  the  other  something  so  totally 
different  that  the  next  moment  the  clear 
cry  of  recognition  gave  way  to  confusion. 
As  is  the  way  of  women,  she  was  the  first 
to  achieve  control,  and  she  did  it  without 
having  given  any  outward  sign  that  she 
had  ever  lost  it.  She  advanced  most  of 
the  distance  across  the  floor  to  meet 
Glendon.  As  for  him,  he  scarcely  knew 
how  he  stumbled  through  the  introduc 
tion.  Here  was  a  woman,  a  WOMAN. 
He  had  not  known  that  such  a  creature 
could  exist.  The  few  women  he  had  no 
ticed  had  never  prefigured  this.  He  won 
dered  what  Old  Pat's  judgment  would 
have  been  of  her,  if  she  was  the  sort  he 
had  recommended  to  hang  on  to  with  both 
his  hands.  He  discovered  that  in  some 
way  he  was  holding  her  hand.  He  looked 
at  it,  curious  and  fascinated,  marveling 
at  its  fragility. 

She,  on  the  other  hand,  had  proceeded 
80 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

to  obliterate  the  echoes  of  that  first  clear 
call.  It  had  been  a  peculiar  experience, 
that  was  all,  this  sudden  out-rush  of  her 
toward  this  strange  man.  For  was  not 
he  the  abysmal  brute  of  the  prize- 
ring,  the  great,  fighting,  stupid  bulk  of  a 
male  animal  who  hammered  up  his  fel 
low  males  of  the  same  stupid  order? 
She  smiled  at  the  way  he  continued  to 
hold  her  hand. 

"  I  '11  have  it  back,  please,  Mr.  Glen- 
don,"  she  said.  "  I  ...  I  really 
need  it,  you  know." 

He  looked  at  her  blankly,  followed 
her  gaze  to  her  imprisoned  hand,  and 
dropped  it  in  a  rush  of  awkwardness  that 
sent  the  blood  in  a  manifest  blush  to  his 
face. 

She  noted  the  blush,  and  the  thought 
came  to  her  that  he  did  not  seem  quite 
the  uncouth  brute  she  had  pictured. 
She  could  not  conceive  of  a  brute  blush- 
Si 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

ing  at  anything.  And  also,  she  found 
herself  pleased  with  the  fact  that  he 
lacked  the  easy  glibness  to  murmur  an 
apology.  But  the  way  he  devoured  her 
with  his  eyes  was  disconcerting.  He 
stared  at  her  as  if  in  a  trance,  while  his 
cheeks  flushed  even  more  redly. 

Stubener  by  this  time  had  fetched  a 
chair  for  her,  and  Glendon  automatically 
sank  down  into  his. 

"  He  's  in  fine  shape,  Miss  Sangster,  in 
fine  shape,"  the  manager  was  saying. 
"  That 's  right,  is  n't  it,  Pat?  Never  felt 
better  in  your  life?  " 

Glendon  was  bothered  by  this.  His 
brows  contracted  in  a  troubled  way,  and 
he  made  no  reply. 

"  I  've  wanted  to  meet  you  for  a  long 
time,  Mr.  Glendon,"  Miss  Sangster  said. 
"  I  never  interviewed  a  pugilist  before,  so 
if  I  don't  go  about  it  expertly  you  '11  for 
give  me,  I  am  sure." 
82 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  Maybe  you  'd  better  start  in  by  see 
ing  him  in  action,"  was  the  manager's 
suggestion.  "  While  he 's  getting  into 
his  fighting  togs  I  can  tell  you  a  lot  about 
him  —  fresh  stuff,  too.  We  '11  call  in 
Walsh,  Pat,  and  go  a  couple  of  rounds." 

"  We  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Glen- 
don  growled  roughly,  in  just  the  way  an 
abysmal  brute  should.  "  Go  ahead  with 
the  interview." 

The  business  went  ahead  unsatisfac 
torily.  Stubener  did  most  of  the  talking 
and  suggesting,  which  was  sufficient  to 
irritate  Maud  Sangster,  while  Pat  volun 
teered  nothing.  She  studied  his  fine 
countenance,  the  eyes  clear  blue  and  wide 
apart,  the  well-modeled,  almost  aquiline, 
nose,  the  firm,  chaste  lips  that  were  sweet 
in  a  masculine  way  in  their  curl  at  the 
corners  and  that  gave  no  hint  of  any  sul- 
lenness.  It  was  a  baffling  personality, 
she  concluded,  if  what  the  papers  said  of 
83 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

him  was  so.  In  vain  she  sought  for  ear 
marks  of  the  brute.  And  in  vain  she  at 
tempted  to  establish  contacts.  For  one 
.thing,  she  knew  too  little  about  prize 
fighters  and  the  ring,  and  whenever  she 
opened  up  a  lead  it  was  promptly 
snatched  away  by  the  information-oozing 
Stubener. 

"  It  must  be  most  interesting,  this  life 
of  a  pugilist,"  she  said  once,  adding  with 
a  sigh,  "  I  wish  I  knew  more  about  it. 
Tell  me:  why  do  you  fight?  —  Oh,  aside 
from  money  reasons."  (This  latter  to 
forestall  Stubener).  "Do  you  enjoy 
fighting?  Are  you  stirred  by  it,  by  pit 
ting  yourself  against  other  men?  I 
hardly  know  how  to  express  what  I 
mean,  so  you  must  be  patient  with  me." 

Pat  and  Stubener  began  speaking  to 
gether,  but  for  once  Pat  bore  his  manager 
down. 

"  I  did  n't  care  for  it  at  first  —  " 
84 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  You  see,  it  was  too  dead  easy  for 
him,"  Stubener  interrupted. 

"  But  later,"  Pat  went  on,  "  when  I  en 
countered  the  better  fighters,  the  real  big 
clever  ones,  where  I  was  more  —  " 

"  On  your  mettle?  "  she  suggested. 

"  Yes ;  that 's  it,  more  on  my  mettle, 
I  found  I  did  care  for  it  ...  a  great 
deal,  in  fact.  But  still,  it 's  not  so  ab 
sorbing  to  me  as  it  might  be.  You  see, 
while  each  battle  is  a  sort  of  problem 
which  I  must  work  out  with  my  wits  and 
muscle,  yet  to  me  the  issue  is  never  in 
doubt  —  " 

"  He  's  never  had  a  fight  go  to  a  de 
cision,"  Stubener  proclaimed.  "  He 's 
won  every  battle  by  the  knock-out 
route." 

"  And  it 's  this  certainty  of  the  outcome 
that  robs  it  of  what  I  imagine  must  be 
its  finest  thrills,"  Pat  concluded. 

"  Maybe  you  '11  get  some  of  them 
85 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

thrills  when  you  go  up  against  Jim  Han- 
ford,"  said  the  manager. 

Pat  smiled,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Tell  me  some  more,"  she  urged, 
"  more  about  the  way  you  feel  when  you 
are  righting." 

And  then  Pat  amazed  his  manager, 
Miss  Sangster,  and  himself,  by  blurting 
out: 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  don't  want  to  talk 
with  you  on  such  things.  It 's  as  if  there 
are  things  more  important  for  you  and 
me  to  talk  about.  I  —  " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  aware  of  what  he 
was  saying  but  unaware  of  why  he  was 
saying  it. 

"Yes,"  she  cried  eagerly.  "That's 
it.  That  is  what  makes  a  good  inter 
view —  the  real  personality,  you  know." 

But  Pat  remained  tongue-tied,  and 
Stubener  wandered  away  on  a  statistical 
comparison  of  his  champion's  weights, 
86 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

measurements,  and  expansions  with  those 
of  Sandow,  the  Terrible  Turk,  Jeffries, 
and  the  other  modern  strong  men.  This 
was  of  little  interest  to  Maud  Sangster, 
and  she  showed  that  she  was  bored.  Her 
eyes  chanced  to  rest  on  the  Sonnets. 
She  picked  the  book  up  and  glanced  in 
quiringly  at  Stubener. 

"That's  Pat's,"  he  said.  "He  goes 
in  for  that  kind  of  stuff,  and  color  photog 
raphy,  and  art  exhibits,  and  such  things. 
But  for  heaven's  sake  don't  publish  any 
thing  about  it.  It  would  ruin  his  reputa 
tion." 

She  looked  accusingly  at  Glendon,  who 
immediately  became  awkward.  To  her 
it  was  delicious.  A  shy  young  man,  with 
the  body  of  a  giant,  who  was  one  of  the 
kings  of  bruisers,  and  who  read  poetry, 
and  went  to  art  exhibits,  and  experi 
mented  with  color  photography!  Of  a 
surety  there  was  no  abysmal  brute  here. 
87 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

His  very  shyness  she  divined  now  was 
due  to  sensitiveness  and  not  stupidity. 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets!  This  was  a 
phase  that  would  bear  investigation. 
But  Stubener  stole  the  opportunity  away 
and  was  back  chanting  his  everlasting 
statistics. 

A  few  minutes  later,  and  most  unwit 
tingly,  she  opened  up  the  biggest  lead  of 
all.  That  first  sharp  attraction  toward 
him  had  begun  to  stir  again  after  the  dis 
covery  of  the  Sonnets.  The  magnificent 
frame  of  his,  the  handsome  face,  the 
chaste  lips,  the  clear-looking  eyes,  the 
fine  forehead  which  the  short  crop  of 
blond  hair  did  not  hide,  the  aura  of  phys 
ical  well-being  and  cleanness  which  he 
seemed  to  emanate  —  all  this,  and  more 
that  she  sensed,  drew  her  as  she  had 
never  been  drawn  by  any  man,  and  yet 
through  her  mind  kept  running  the 
nasty  rumors  that  she  had  heard  only 
88 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

the  day  before  at  the  "  Courier-Journal " 
office. 

"  You  were  right,"  she  said.  "  There 
is  something  more  important  to  talk 
about.  There  is  something  in  my  mind 
I  want  you  to  reconcile  for  me.  Do  you 
mind?" 

Pat  shook  his  head. 

"  If  I  am  frank?  —  abominably  frank? 
I  Ve  heard  the  men,  sometimes,  talking 
of  particular  fights  and  of  the  betting 
odds,  and,  while  I  gave  no  heed  to  it  at 
the  time,  it  seemed  to  me  it  was  firmly 
agreed  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
trickery  and  cheating  connected  with  the 
sport.  Now,  when  I  look  at  you,  for  in 
stance,  I  find  it  hard  to  understand  how 
you  can  be  a  party  to  such  cheating.  I 
can  understand  your  liking  the  sport  for 
a  sport,  as  well  as  for  the  money  it  brings 
you,  but  I  can't  understand  —  " 

"  There 's  nothing  to  understand," 
89 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Stubener  broke  in,  while  Pat's  lips  were 
wreathed  in  a  gentle,  tolerant  smile. 
"  It 's  all  fairy  tales,  this  talk  about  fak 
ing,  about  fixed  fights,  and  all  that  rot. 
There  's  nothing  to  it,  Miss  Sangster,  I 
assure  you.  And  now  let  me  tell  you 
about  how  I  discovered  Mr.  Glendon.  It 
was  a  letter  I  got  from  his  father  —  " 

But  Maud  Sangster  refused  to  be  side 
tracked,  and  addressed  herself  to  Pat. 

"  Listen.  I  remember  one  case  par 
ticularly.  It  was  some  fight  that  took 
place  several  months  ago  —  I  forget  the 
contestants.  One  of  the  editors-  of  the 
"Courier-Journal"  told  me  he  intended 
to  make  a  good  winning.  He  didn't 
hope;  he  said  he  intended.  He  said  he 
was  on  the  inside  and  was  betting  on  the 
number  of  rounds.  He  told  me  the  fight 
would  end  in  the  nineteenth.  This  was 
the  night  before.  And  the  next  day  he 
triumphantly  called  my  attention  to  the 
90 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

fact  that  it  had  ended  in  that  very  round. 
I  did  n't  think  anything  of  it  one  way  or 
the  other.  I  was  not  interested  in  prize 
fighting  then.  But  I  am  now.  At  the 
time  it  seemed  quite  in  accord  with  the 
vague  conception  I  had  about  fighting. 
So  you  see,  it  is  n't  all  fairy  tales,  is  it?  " 

"I  know  that  fight,"  Glendon  said. 
"  It  was  Owen  and  Murgweather.  And 
it  did  end  in  the  nineteenth  round,  Sam. 
And  she  said  she  heard  that  round  named 
the  day  before.  How  do  you  account  for 
it,  Sam?" 

"  How  do  you  account  for  a  man  pick 
ing  a  lucky  lottery  ticket?  "  the  manager 
evaded,  while  getting  his  wits  together  to 
answer.  "  That 's  the  very  point.  Men 
who  study  form  and  condition  and  sec 
onds  and  rules  and  such  things  often  pick 
the  number  of  rounds,  just  as  men  have 
been  known  to  pick  hundred-to-one  shots 
in  the  races.  And  don't  forget  one  thing : 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

for  every  man  that  wins,  there  's  another 
that  loses,  there 's  another  that  did  n't 
pick  right.  Miss  Sangster,  I  assure  you, 
on  my  honor,  that  faking  and  fixing  in 
the  fight  game  is  ...  is  non-exist 
ent." 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Glendon?  " 
she  asked. 

"  The  same  as  mine,"  Stubener 
snatched  the  answer.  "He  knows  what 
I  say  is  true,  every  word  of  it.  He  's 
never  fought  anything  but  a  straight  fight 
in  his  life.  Is  n't  that  right,  Pat?  " 

"Yes;  it's  right,"  Pat  affirmed,  and 
the  peculiar  thing  to  Maud  Sangster  was 
that  she  was  convinced  he  spoke  the 
truth. 

She  brushed  her  forehead  with  her 
hand,  as  if  to  rid  herself  of  the  bepuzzle- 
ment  that  clouded  her  brain. 

"  Listen,"  she  said.  "  Last  night  the 
same  editor  told  me  that  your  forthcom- 
92 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

ing  fight  was  arranged  to  the  very  round 
in  which  it  would  end." 

Stubener  was  verging  on  a  panic,  but 
Pat's  speech  saved  him  from  replying. 

"Then  the  editor  lies,"  Pat's  voice 
boomed  now  for  the  first  time. 

"  He  did  not  lie  before,  about  that 
other  fight,"  she  challenged. 

"  What  round  did  he  say  my  fight  with 
Nat  Powers  would  end  in?  " 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  manager 
was  into  the  thick  of  it. 

"  Oh,  rats,  Pat!  "  he  cried.  "  Shut  up. 
It 's  only  the  regular  run  of  ring  rumors. 
Let 's  get  on  with  this  interview." 

He  was  ignored  by  Glendon,  whose 
eyes,  bent  on  hers,  were  no  longer  mildly 
blue,  but  harsh  and  imperative.  She  was 
sure  now  that  she  had  stumbled  on 
something  tremendous,  something  that 
would  explain  all  that  had  baffled  her. 
At  the  same  time  she  thrilled  to  the  ; 
93 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

mastery  of  his  voice  and  gaze.  Here 
was  a  male  man  who  would  take  hold  of 
life  and  shake  out  of  it  what  he  wanted. 

"What  round  did  the  editor  say?" 
Glendon  reiterated  his  demand. 

"  For  the  love  of  Mike,  Pat,  stop  this 
foolishness,"  Stubener  broke  in. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  chance 
to  answer,"  Maud  Sangster  said. 

"  I  guess  I  'm  able  to  talk  with  Miss 
Sangster,"  Glendon  added.  "You  get 
out,  Sam.  Go  off  and  take  care  of  that 
photographer." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  tense, 
silent  moment,  then  the  manager  moved 
slowly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  turned 
his  head  to  listen. 

"  And  now  what  round  did  he  say?  " 

"  I  hope  I  have  n't  made  a  mistake," 
she  said  tremulously,  "  but  I  am  very  sure 
that  he  said  the  sixteenth  round." 

She  saw  surprise  and  anger  leap  into 
94 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Glendon's  face,  and  the  anger  and  accusa 
tion  in  the  glance  he  cast  at  his  manager, 
and  she  knew  the  blow  had  driven  home. 

And  there  was  reason  for  his  anger. 
He  knew  he  had  talked  it  over  with 
Stubener,  and  they  had  reached  a  deci 
sion  to  give  the  audience  a  good  run  for 
its  money  without  unnecessarily  prolong 
ing  the  fight,  and  to  end  it  in  the  six 
teenth.  And  here  was  a  woman,  from  a 
newspaper  office,  naming  the  very  round. 

Stubener,  in  the  doorway,  looked  limp 
and  pale,  and  it  was  evident  he  was  hold 
ing  himself  together  by  an  effort. 

"I'll  see  you  later,"  Pat  told  him. 
"  Shut  the  door  behind  you." 

The  door  closed,  and  the  two  were  left 
alone.  Glendon  did  not  speak.  The  ex 
pression  on  his  face  was  frankly  one  of 
trouble  and  perplexity. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

He  got  up  and  towered  above  her,  then 
95 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

sat  down  again,  moistening  his  lips  with 
his  tongue. 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  finally 
said.  "The  fight  won't  end  in  the  six 
teenth  round." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  her  uncon 
vinced  and  quizzical  smile  hurt  him. 

"  You  wait  and  see,  Miss  Sangster,  and 
you  '11  see  that  editor  man  is  mistaken." 

"  You  mean  the  program  is  to  be 
changed?  "  she  queried  audaciously. 

He  quivered  to  the  cut  of  her  words. 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  lying,"  he 
said  stiffly,  "  even  to  women." 

"  Neither  have  you  to  me,  nor  have  you 
denied  the  program  is  to  be  changed. 
Perhaps,  Mr.  Glendon,  I  am  stupid,  but 
I  fail  to  see  the  difference  in  what  num 
ber  the  final  round  occurs  so  long  as  it  is 
predetermined  and  known." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  that  round,  and  not  an 
other  soul  shall  know." 
96 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"  It  sounds  to  me  very  much  like  a 
racing  tip.  They  are  always  given  that 
way,  you  know.  Furthermore,  I  am  not 
quite  stupid,  and  I  know  there  is  some 
thing  wrong  here.  Why  were  you  made 
angry  by  my  naming  the  round?  Why 
were  you  angry  with  your  manager? 
Why  did  you  send  him  from  the  room?  " 

For  reply,  Glendon  walked  over  to  the 
window,  as  if  to  look  out,  where  he 
changed  his  mind  and  partly  turned,  and 
she  knew,  without  seeing,  that  he  was 
studying  her  face.  He  came  back  and 
sat  down. 

"  You  've  said  I  have  n't  lied  to  you, 
Miss  Sangster,  and  you  were  right.  I 
haven't."  He  paused,  groping  painfully 
for  a  correct  statement  of  the  situation. 
"  Now  do  you  think  you  can  believe  what 
I  am  going  to  tell  you?  Will  you  take 
the  word  of  a  .  .  .  prize-fighter? " 
97 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

She  nodded  gravely,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes  and  certain  that  what 
he  was  about  to  tell  was  the  truth. 

"I've  always  fought  straight  and 
square.  I  've  never  touched  a  piece  of 
dirty  money  in  my  life,  nor  attempted  a 
dirty  trick.  Now  I  can  go  on  from  that. 
You  Ve  shaken  me  up  pretty  badly  by 
what  you  told  me.  I  don't  know  what 
to  make  of  it.  I  can't  pass  a  snap  judg 
ment  on  it.  I  don't  know.  But  it  looks 
bad.  That 's  what  troubles  me.  For 
see  you,  Stubener  and  I  have  talked  this 
fight  over,  and  it  was  understood  between 
us  that  I  would  end  the  fight  in  the  six 
teenth  round.  Now  you  bring  the  same 
word.  How  did  that  editor  know?  Not 
from  me.  Stubener  must  have  let  it  out 
.  .  .  unless  .  .  ."  He  stopped  to 
debate  the  problem.  "  Unless  that  editor 
is  a  lucky  guesser.  I  can't  make  up  my 
mind  about  it.  I  '11  have  to  keep  my  eyes 
98 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

open  and .  wait  and  learn.  Every  word 
I  Ve  given  you  is  straight,  and  there  Js 
my  hand  on  it." 

Again  he  towered  out  of  his  chair  and 
over  to  her.  Her  small  hand  was  gripped 
in  his  big  one  as  she  arose  to  meet  him, 
and  after  a  fair,  straight  look  into  the  eyes 
between  them,  both  glanced  uncon 
sciously  at  the  clasped  hands.  She  felt 
that  she  had  never  been  more  aware  that 
she  was  a  woman.  The  sex  emphasis  of 
those  two  hands  —  the  soft  and  frag 
ile  feminine  and  the  heavy,  muscular 
masculine  —  was  startling.  Glendon  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  could  be  hurt  so  easily,"  he  said ; 
and  at  the  same  time  she  felt  the  firmness 
of  his  grip  almost  caressingly  relax. 

She    remembered    the    old    Prussian 
king's  love  for  giants,  and  laughed  at  the 
incongruity  of  the  thought-association  as 
she  withdrew  her  hand. 
99 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  here  to-day,"  he 
said,  then  hurried  on  awkwardly  to  make 
an  explanation  which  the  warm  light  of 
admiration  in  his  eyes  belied.  "  I  mean 
because  maybe  you  have  opened  my  eyes 
to  the  crooked  dealing  that  has  been  go 
ing  on." 

"  You  have  surprised  me,"  she  urged. 
"  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  is  so  generally 
understood  that  prize-fighting  is  full  of 
crookedness,  that  I  cannot  understand 
how  you,  one  of  its  chief  exponents,  could 
be  ignorant  of  it.  I  thought  as  a  matter 
of  course  that  you  would  know  all  about 
it,  and  now  you  have  convinced  me  that 
you  never  dreamed  of  it.  You  must  be 
different  from  other  fighters." 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  That  explains  it,  I  guess.    And  that 's 

what  comes  of  keeping  away  from  it  — 

from  the  other  fighters,  and  promoters, 

and  sports.     It  was  easy  to  pull  the  wool 

100 


THE  ABYSM AL. BRUTE. 

over  my  eyes.  Yet  it  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  it  has  really  been  pulled  over  or 
not.  You  see,  I  am  going  to  find  out  for 
myself." 

"And  change  it?"  she  queried,  rather 
breathlessly,  convinced  somehow  that  he 
could  do  anything  he  set  out  to  accom 
plish. 

"No;  quit  it,"  was  his  answer.  "If 
it  isn't  straight  I  won't  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  it.  And  one  thing  is 
certain:  this  coming  fight  with  Nat 
Powers  won't  end  in  the  sixteenth  round. 
If  there  is  any  truth  in  that  editor's  tip, 
they  '11  all  be  fooled.  Instead  of  putting 
him  out  in  the  sixteenth,  I  '11  let  the  fight 
run  on  into  the  twenties.  You  wait  and 
see." 

"  And  I  'm  not  to  tell  the  editor?  " 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  preparing 
to  go. 

"  Certainly  not.  If  he  is  only  guessing, 
101 


.  THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

let  him  take  his  chances.  And  if  there  's 
anything  rotten  about  it  he  deserves  to 
lose  all  he  bets.  This  is  to  be  a  little 
secret  between  you  and  me.  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  '11  do.  I  '11  name  the  round  to 
you.  I  won't  run  it  into  the  twenties. 
I  '11  stop  Nat  Powers  in  the  eight 
eenth." 

"  And  I  '11  not  whisper  it,"  she  assured 
him. 

"  I  'd  like  to  ask  you  a  favor,"  he  said 
tentatively.  "  Maybe  it 's  a  big  favor." 

She  showed  her  acquiescence  in  her 
face,  as  if  it  were  already  granted,  and  he 
went  on: 

"  Of  course,  I  know  you  won't  use  this 
faking  in  the  interview.  But  I  want 
more  than  that.  I  don't  want  you  to  pub 
lish  anything  at  all." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  look  with  her 
searching  gray  eyes,  then  surprised  her 
self  by  her  answer. 

102 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  Certainly,"  she  said.  "  It  will  not  be 
published.  I  won't  write  a  line  of  it." 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  said  simply. 

For  the  moment  she  was  disappointed 
by  the  lack  of  thanks,  and  the  next  mo 
ment  she  was  glad  that  he  had  not 
thanked  her.  She  sensed  the  different 
foundation  he  was  building  under  this 
meeting  of  an  hour  with  her,  and  she  be 
came  daringly  explorative. 

"  How  did  you  know  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know."  He  shook  his  head. 
"  I  can't  explain  it.  I  knew  it  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course.  Somehow  it  seems  to  me 
I  know  a  lot  about  you  and  me." 

"But  why  not  publish  the  interview? 
As  your  manager  says,  it  is  good  adver 
tising." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  answered  slowly. 
"  But  I  don't  want  to  know  you  that  way. 
I  think  it  would  hurt  if  you  should  pub 
lish  it.  I  don't  want  to  think  that  I  knew 
103 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

you  professionally.  I  'd  like  to  remem 
ber  our  talk  here  as  a  talk  between  a  man 
and  a  woman.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
understand  what  I  'm  driving  at.  But 
it 's  the  way  I  feel.  I  want  to  remember 
this  just  as  a  man  and  a  woman." 

As  he  spoke,  in  his  eyes  was  all  the  ex 
pression  with  which  a  man  looks  at  a 
woman.  She  felt  the  force  and  beat  of 
him,  and  she  felt  strangely  tongue-tied 
and  awkward  before  this  man  who  had 
been  reputed  tongue-tied  and  awkward. 
He  could  certainly  talk  straighter  to  the 
point  and  more  convincingly  than  most 
men,  and  what  struck  her  most  forcibly 
was  her  own  inborn  certainty  that  it  was 
mere  naive  and  simple  frankness  on  his 
part  and  not  a  practised  artfulness. 

He  saw  her  into  her  machine,  and  gave 
her  another  thrill  when  he  said  good-by. 
Once  again  their  hands  were  clasped  as 
he  said: 

104 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  Some  day  I  '11  see  you  again.  I  want 
to  see  you  again.  Somehow  I  have  a 
feeling  that  the  last  word  has  not  been 
said  between  us." 

And  as  the  machine  rolled  away  she 
was  aware  of  a  similar  feeling.  She  had 
not  seen  the  last  of  this  very  disquieting 
Pat  Glendon,  king  of  the  bruisers  and 
abysmal  brute. 

Back  in  the  training  quarters,  Glendon 
encountered  his  perturbed  manager. 

"  What  did  you  fire  me  out  for?  "  Stu- 
bener  demanded.  "  We  're  finished.  A 
hell  of  a  mess  you  Ve  made.  You  Ve 
never  stood  for  meeting  a  reporter  alone 
before,  and  now  you  '11  see  when  that  in 
terview  comes  out." 

Glendon,  who  had  been  regarding  him 
with  cool  amusement,  made  as  if  to  turn 
and  pass  on,  and  then  changed  his  mind. 

"  It  won't  come  out,"  he  said. 

Stubener  looked  up  sharply. 
105 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"I  asked  her  not  to,"  Glendon 
explained. 

Then  Stubener  exploded. 

"  As  if  she  'd  kill  a  juicy  thing  like 
that.  " 

Glendon  became  very  cold  and  his  voice 
was  harsh  and  grating. 

"  It  won't  be  published.  She  told  me 
so.  And  to  doubt  it  is  to  call  her  a  liar." 

The  Irish  flame  was  in  his  eyes,  and 
by  that,  and  by  the  unconscious  clench 
ing  of  his  passion-wrought  hands,  Stu 
bener,  who  knew  the  strength  of  them, 
and  of  the  man  he  faced,  no  longer  dared 
to  doubt. 


106 


VII 

IT  did  not  take  Stubener  long  to  find 
out  that  Glendon  intended  extending 
the  distance  of  the  fight,  though  try 
as  he  would  he  could  get  no  hint  of  the 
number  of  the  round.  He  wasted  no 
time,  however,  and  privily  clinched  cer 
tain  arrangements  with  Nat  Powers  and 
Nat  Powers'  manager.  Powers  had  a 
faithful  following  of  bettors,  and  the  bet 
ting  syndicate  was  not  to  be  denied  its 
harvest. 

On  the  night  of  the  fight,  Maud  Sang- 
ster  was  guilty  of  a  more  daring  uncon- 
ventionality  than  any  she  had  yet  com 
mitted,  though  no  whisper  of  it  leaked 
out  to  shock  society.  Under  the  protec 
tion  of  the  editor,  she  occupied  a  ring-side 
107 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

seat.  Her  hair  and  most  of  her  face  were 
hidden  under  a  slouch  hat,  while  she  wore 
a  man's  long  overcoat  that  fell  to  her 
heels.  Entering  in  the  thick  of  the 
crowd,  she  was  not  noticed;  nor  did  the 
newspaper  men,  in  the  press  seats  against 
the  ring  directly  in  front  of  her,  recognize 
her. 

As  was  the  growing  custom,  there  were 
no  preliminary  bouts,  and  she  had  barely 
gained  her  seat  when  roars  of  applause 
announced  the  arrival  of  Nat  Powers. 
He  came  down  the  aisle  in  the  midst  of 
his  seconds,  and  she  was  almost  fright 
ened  by  the  formidable  bulk  of  him.  Yet 
he  leaped  the  ropes  as  lightly  as  a  man 
half  his  weight,  and  grinned  acknowledg 
ment  to  the  tumultuous  greeting  that 
arose  from  all  the  house.  He  was  not 
pretty.  Two  cauliflower  ears  attested 
his  profession  and  its  attendant  brutality, 
while  his  broken  nose  had  been  so  often 
108 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

spread  over  his  face  as  to  defy  the  sur 
geon's  art  to  reconstruct  it. 

Another  uproar  heralded  the  arrival  of 
Glendon,  and  she  watched  him  eagerly 
as  he  went  through  the  ropes  to  his  cor 
ner.  But  it  was  not  until  the  tedious 
time  of  announcements,  introductions, 
and  challenges  was  over,  that  the  two 
men  threw  off  their  wraps  and  faced  each 
other  in  ring  costume.  Concentrated 
upon  them  from  overhead  was  the  white 
glare  of  many  electric  lights  —  this  for 
the  benefit  of  the  moving  picture  cam 
eras;  and  she  felt,  as  she  looked  at  the 
two  sharply  contrasted  men,  that  it  was 
in  Glendon  that  she  saw  the  thorough 
bred  and  in  Powers  the  abysmal  brute. 
Both  looked  their  parts  —  Glendon,  clean 
cut  in  face  and  form,  softly  and  massively 
beautiful,  Powers  almost  asymmetrically 
rugged  and  heavily  matted  with 

As  they  made  their  preliminary  pose 
109 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

for  the  cameras,  confronting  each  other 
in  fighting  attitudes,  it  chanced  that  Glen- 
don's  gaze  dropped  down  through  the 
ropes  and  rested  on  her  face.  Though 
he  gave  no  sign,  she  knew,  with  a  swift 
leap  of  the  heart,  that  he  had  recognized 
her.  The  next  moment  the  gong 
sounded,  the  announcer  cried  "  Let  her 
go ! "  and  the  battle  was  on. 

It  was  a  good  fight.  There  was  no 
blood,  no  marring,  and  both  were  clever. 
Half  of  the  first  round  was  spent  in  feel 
ing  each  other  out,  but  Maud  Sangster 
found  the  play  and  feint  and  tap  of  the 
gloves  sufficiently  exciting.  During  some 
of  the  fiercer  rallies  in  later  stages  of  the 
fight,  the  editor  was  compelled  to  touch 
her  arm  to  remind  her  who  she  was  and 
where  she  was. 

Powers  fought  easily  and  cleanly,  as 
became  the  hero  of  half  a  hundred  ring 
battles,  and  an  admiring  claque  applauded 
no 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

his  every  cleverness.  Yet  he  did  not  un 
duly  exert  himself  save  in  occasional 
strenuous  rallies  that  brought  the  audi 
ence  yelling  to  its  feet  in  the  mistaken 
notion  that  he  was  getting  his  man. 

It  was  at  such  a  moment,  when  her  un 
practised  eye  could  not  inform  her  that 
Glendon  was  escaping  serious  damage, 
that  the  editor  leaned  to  her  and  said:. 

"  Young  Pat  will  win  all  right.     He  's 
a  comer,  and  they  can't  stop  him.     But 
he  '11  win  in  the  sixteenth  and  not  before." 
"  Or  after?  "  she  asked. 
She  almost  laughed  at  the  certitude 
of  her  companion's  negative.     She  knew 
better. 

Powers  was  noted  for  hunting  his  man 
from  moment  to  moment  and  round  to 
round,  and  Glendon  was  content  to  ac 
cede  to  this  program.  His  defense  was 
admirable,  and  he  threw  in  just  enough 
of  offense  to  whet  the  edge  of  the 
in 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

audience's  interest.  Though  he  knew  he 
was  scheduled  to  lose,  Powers  had  had 
too  long  a  ring  experience  to  hesitate 
from  knocking  his  man  out  if  the  oppor 
tunity  offered.  He  had  had  the  double 
cross  worked  too  often  on  him  to  be  chary 
in  working  it  on  others.  If  he  got  his 
chance  he  was  prepared  to  knock  his  man 
out  and  let  the  syndicate  go  hang. 
Thanks  to  clever  press  publicity,  the  idea 
was  prevalent  that  at  last  Young  Glendon 
had  met  his  master.  In  his  heart, 
Powers,  however,  knew  that  it  was  him 
self  who  had  encountered  the  better  man. 
More  than  once,  in  the  faster  in-fighting, 
he  received  the  weight  of  punches  that 
he  knew  had  been  deliberately  made  no 
heavier. 

On  Glendon's  part,  there  were  times 
and  times  when  a  slip  or  error  of  judg 
ment  could  have  exposed  him  to  one  of 
his  antagonist's  sledge-hammer  blows  and 
112 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

lost  him  the  fight.  Yet  his  was  that  al 
most  miraculous  power  of  accurate  tim 
ing  and  distancing,  and  his  confidence 
was  not  shaken  by  the  several  close 
shaves  he  experienced.  He  had  never 
lost  a  fight,  never  been  knocked  down, 
and  he  had  always  been  so  thoroughly 
the  master  of  the  man  he  faced,  that  such 
a  possibility  was  unthinkable. 

At  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  round,  both 
men  were  in  good  condition,  though 
Powers  was  breathing  a  trifle  heavily  and 
there  were  men  in  the  ringside  seats  of 
fering  odds  that  he  would  "  blow  up." 

It  was  just  before  the  gong  for  the  six 
teenth  round  struck  that  Stubener,  lean 
ing  over  Glendon  from  behind  in  his  cor 
ner,  whispered: 

"  Are  you  going  to  get  him  now?  " 

Glendon,  with  a  back  toss  of  his  head, 
shook  it  and  laughed  mockingly  up  into 
his  manager's  anxious  face. 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

With  the  stroke  of  the  gong  for  the 
sixteenth  round,  Glendon  was  surprised 
to  see  Powers  cut  loose.  From  the  first 
second  it  was  a  tornado  of  fighting,  and 
Glendon  was  hard  put  to  escape  serious 
damage.  He  blocked,  clinched,  ducked, 
sidestepped,  was  rushed  backward  against 
the  ropes  and  was  met  by  fresh  rushes 
when  he  surged  out  to  center.  Several 
times  Powers  left  inviting  openings,  but 
Glendon  refused  to  loose  the  lightning- 
bolt  of  a  blow  that  would  drop  his  man. 
He  was  reserving  that  blow  for  two 
rounds  later.  Not  in  the  whole  fight  had 
he  ever  exerted  his  full  strength,  nor 
struck  with  the  force  that  was  in  him. 

For  two  minutes,  without  the  slightest 
let-up,  Powers  went  at  him  hammer  and 
tongs.  In  another  minute  the  round 
would  be  over  and  the  betting  snydicate 
hard  hit.  But  that  minute  was  not  to 
be.  They  had  just  come  together  in  the 
114 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

center  of  the  ring.  It  was  as  ordinary  a 
clinch  as  any  in  the  fight,  save  that 
Powers  was  struggling  and  roughing  it 
every  instant.  Glendon  whipped  his  left 
over  in  a  crisp  but  easy  jolt  to  the  side 
of  the  face.  It  was  like  any  of  a  score 
of  similar  jolts  he  had  already  delivered 
in  the  course  of  the  fight.  To  his  amaze 
ment  he  felt  Powers  go  limp  in  his  arms 
and  begin  sinking  to  the  floor  on  sagging, 
spraddling  legs  that  refused  to  bear  his 
weight.  He  struck  the  floor  with  a 
thump,  rolled  half  over  on  his  side,  and 
lay  with  closed  eyes  and  motionless.  The 
referee,  bending  above  him,  was  shouting 
the  count. 

At  the  cry  of  "  Nine ! "  Powers  quiv 
ered  as  if  making  a  vain  effort  to  rise. 

"  Ten!  —  and  out!  "  cried  the  referee. 

He  caught  Glendon's  hand  and  raised 
it  aloft  to  the  roaring  audience  in  token 
that  he  was  the  winner. 
"5 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

For  the  first  time  in  the  ring,  Glendon 
was  dazed.  It  had  not  been  a  knockout 
blow.  He  could  stake  his  life  on  that. 
It  had  not  been  to  the  jaw  but  to  the 
side  of  the  face,  and  he  knew  it  had  gone 
there  and  nowhere  else.  Yet  the  man 
was  out,  had  been  counted  out,  and  he 
had  faked  it  beautifully.  That  final 
thump  on  the  floor  had  been  a  convincing 
masterpiece.  To  the  audience  it  was  in 
dubitably  a  knockout,  and  the  moving 
picture  machines  would  perpetuate  the 
lie.  The  editor  had  called  the  turn  after 
all,  and  a  crooked  turn  it  was. 

Glendon  shot  a  swift  glance  through 
the  ropes  to  the  face  of  Maud  Sangster. 
She  was  looking  straight  at  him,  but  her 
eyes  were  bleak  and  hard,  and  there  was 
neither  recognition  nor  expression  in 
them.  Even  as  he  looked,  she  turned 
away  unconcernedly  and  said  something 
to  the  man  beside  her. 
116 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Powers'  seconds  were  carrying  him  to 
his  corner,  a  seeming  limp  wreck  of  a 
man.  Glendon's  seconds  were  advancing 
upon  him  to  congratulate  him  and  to  re 
move  his  gloves.  But  Stubener  was 
ahead  of  them.  His  face  was  beaming  as 
he  caught  Glendon's  right  glove  in  both 
his  hands  and  cried: 

"  Good  boy,  Pat.     I  knew  you'd  do  it." 

Glendon  pulled  his  glove  away.  And 
for  the  first  time  in  the  years  they  had 
been  together,  his  manager  heard  him 
swear. 

"  You  go  to  hell,"  he  said,  and  turned 
to  hold  out  his  hands  for  his  seconds  to 
pull  off  the  gloves. 


117 


VIII 

THAT  night,  after  receiving  the 
editor's  final  dictum  that  there 
was  not  a  square  fighter  in  the 
game,  Maud  Sangster  cried  quietly  for  a 
moment  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  grew  an 
gry,  and  went  to  sleep  hugely  disgusted 
with  herself,  prize-fighters,  and  the  world 
in  general. 

The  next  afternoon  she  began  work  on 
an  interview  with  Henry  Addison  that 
was  destined  never  to  be  finished.  It  was 
in  the  private  room  that  was  accorded  her 
at  the  "  Courier-Journal "  office  that  the 
thing  happened.  She  had  paused  in  her 
writing  to  glance  at  a  headline  in  the  af 
ternoon  paper  announcing  that  Glendon 
was  matched  with  Tom  Cannam,  when 
118 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

one  of  the  door-boys  brought  in  a  card. 
It  was  Glendon's. 

"Tell  him  I  can't  be  seen,"  she  told 
the  boy. 

In  a  minute  he  was  back. 

"  He  says  he  's  coming  in  anyway,  but 
he  'd  rather  have  your  permission." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  I  was  busy?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes  'm,  but  he  said  he  was  coming 
just  the  same." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  the  boy,  his 
eyes  shining  with  admiration  for  the  im 
portunate  visitor,  rattled  on. 

"I  know'm.  He's  a  awful  big  guy. 
If  he  started  roughhousing  he  could  clean 
the  whole  office  out.  He  's  young  Glen- 
don,  who  won  the  fight  last  night." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Bring  him  in.  We 
don't  want  the  office  cleaned  out,  you 
know." 

No  greetings  were  exchanged  when 
119 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Glendon  entered.  She  was  as  cold  and 
inhospitable  as  a  gray  day,  and  neither 
invited  him  to  a  chair  nor  recognized  him 
with  her  eyes,  sitting  half  turned  away 
from  him  at  her  desk  and  waiting  for  him 
to  state  his  business.  He  gave  no  sign 
of  how  this  cavalier  treatment  affected 
him,  but  plunged  directly  into  his  subject. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said  shortly. 
"  That  fight.  It  did  end  in  that  round." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  knew  it  would." 

"You  didn't,"  he  retorted.  "You 
did  n't.  I  did  n't." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  with 
quiet  affectation  of  boredom. 

"What  is  the  use?"  she  asked. 
"  Prize-fighting  is  prize-fighting,  and  we 
all  know  what  it  means.  The  fight  did 
end  in  the  round  I  told  you  it  would." 

"  It  did,"  he  agreed.     "  But  you  did  n't 


1 20 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

know  it  would.  In  all  the  world  you  and 
I  were  at  least  two  that  knew  Powers 
wouldn't  be  knocked  out  in  the  six 
teenth." 

She  remained  silent. 

"  I  say  you  knew  he  would  n't."  He 
spoke  peremptorily,  and,  when  she  still 
declined  to  speak,  stepped  nearer  to  her. 
"  Answer  me,"  he  commanded. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"  But  he  was,"  she  insisted. 

"  He  was  n't.  He  was  n't  knocked  out 
at  all.  Do  you  get  that?  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  about  it,  and  you  are  going  to 
listen.  I  did  n't  lie  to  you.  Do  you  get 
that?  I  did  n't  lie  to  you.  I  was  a  fool, 
and  they  fooled  me,  and  you  along  with 
me.  You  thought  you  saw  him  knocked 
out.  Yet  the  blow  I  struck  was  not 
heavy  enough.  It  didn't  hit  him  in  the 
right  place  either.  He  made  believe  it 
did.  He  faked  that  knockout." 
121 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her  ex 
pectantly.  And  somehow,  with  a  leap 
and  thrill,  she  knew  that  she  believed 
him,  and  she  felt  pervaded  by  a  warm 
happiness  at  the  reinstatement  of  this  man 
who  meant  nothing  to  her  and  whom  she 
had  seen  but  twice  in  her  life. 

"  Well?  "  he  demanded,  and  she  thrilled 
anew  at  the  compellingness  of  him. 

She  stood  up,  and  her  hand  went  out 
to  his. 

"  I  believe  you,"  she  said.  "  And  I  am 
glad,  most  glad." 

It  was  a  longer  grip  than  she  had  an 
ticipated.  He  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
that  burned  and  to  which  her  own  uncon 
sciously  answered  back.  Never  was  there 
such  a  man,  was  her  thought.  Her  eyes 
dropped  first,  and  his  followed,  so  that, 
'as  before,  both  gazed  at  the  clasped  hands. 
He  made  a  movement  of  his  whole  body 
toward  her,  impulsive  and  involuntary,  as 
122 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

if  to  gather  her  to  him,  then  checked  him 
self  abruptly,  with  an  unmistakable  effort. 
She  saw  it,  and  felt  the  pull  of  his  hand 
as  it  started  to  draw  her  to  him.  And 
to  her  amazement  she  felt  the  desire  to 
yield,  the  desire  almost  overwhelmingly 
to  be  drawn  into  the  strong  circle  of  those 
arms.  And  had  he  compelled,  she  knew 
that  she  would  not  have  refrained.  She 
was  almost  dizzy,  when  he  checked  him 
self  and  with  a  closing  of  his  fingers  that 
half  crushed  hers,  dropped  her  hand,  al 
most  flung  it  from  him. 

"God!"  he  breathed.  "You  were 
made  for  me." 

He  turned  partly  away  from  her, 
sweeping  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  She 
knew  she  would  hate  him  forever  if  he 
dared  one  stammered  word  of  apology  or 
explanation.  But  he  seemed  to  have  the 
way  always  of  doing  the  right  thing 
where  she  was  concerned.  She  sank  into 
123 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

her  chair,  and  he  into  another,  first  draw 
ing  it  around  so  as  to  face  her  across  the 
corner  of  the  desk. 

"  I  spent  last  night  in  a  Turkish  bath," 
he  said.  "  I  sent  for  an  old  broken-down 
bruiser.  He  was  a  friend  of  my  father 
in  the  old  days.  I  knew  there  could  n't 
be  a  thing  about  the  ring  he  did  n't  know, 
and  I  made  him  talk.  The  funny  thing 
was  that  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  convince 
him  that  I  didn't  know  the  things  I 
asked  him  about.  He  called  me  the  babe 
in  the  woods.  I  guess  he  was  right.  I 
was  raised  in  the  woods,  and  woods  is 
about  all  I  know. 

"  Well,  I  received  an  education  from 
that  old  man  last  night.  The  ring  is  rot- 
tener  than  you  told  me.  It  seems  every 
body  connected  with  it  is  crooked.  The 
very  supervisors  that  grant  the  fight  per 
mits  graft  off  of  the  promoters;  and  the 
promoters,  managers,  and  fighters  graft 
124 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

off  of  each  other  and  off  the  public.  It 's 
down  to  a  system,  in  one  way,  and  on 
the  other  nand  they  're  always  —  do  you 
know  what  the  double  cross  is?  "  (She 
nodded.)  "  Well,  they  don't  seem  to  miss 
a  chance  to  give  each  other  the  double 
cross. 

"  The  stuff  that  old  man  told  me  took 
my  breath  away.  And  here  I  've  been  in 
the  thick  of  it  for  several  years  and  knew 
nothing  of  it.  I  was  a  real  babe  in  the 
woods.  And  yet  I  can  see  how  I  Ve  been 
fooled.  I  was  so  made  that  nobody 
could  stop  me.  I  was  bound  to  win,  and, 
thanks  to  Stubener,  everything  crooked 
was  kept  away  from  me.  This  morning 
I  cornered  Spider  Walsh  and  made  him 
talk.  He  was  my  first  trainer,  you  know, 
and  he  followed  Stubener's  instructions. 
They  kept  me  in  ignorance.  Besides,  I 
did  n't  herd  with  the  sporting  crowd.  I 
spent  my  time  hunting  and  fishing  and 
125 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

monkeying  with  cameras  and  such 
things.  Do  you  know  what  Walsh  and 
Stubener  called  me  between  themselves? 
— the  Virgin.  I  only  learned  it  this 
morning  from  Walsh,  and  it  was  like 
pulling  teeth.  And  they  were  right.  I 
was  a  little  innocent  lamb. 

"  And  Stubener  was  using  me  for 
crookedness,  too,  only  I  didn't  know  it. 
I  can  look  back  now  and  see  how  it  was 
worked.  But  you  see,  I  wasn't  inter 
ested  enough  in  the  game  to  be  sus 
picious.  I  was  born  with  a  good  body 
and  a  cool  head,  I  was  raised  in  the  open, 
and  I  was  taught  by  my  father,  who 
knew  more  about  fighting  than  any  man 
living  or  dead.  It  was  too  easy.  The 
ring  did  n't  absorb  me.  There  was  never 
any  doubt  of  the  outcome.  But  I  'm 
done  with  it  now." 

She  pointed  to  the  headline  announc 
ing  his  match  with  Tom  Cannam. 
126 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"That's  Stubener's  work,"  he  ex 
plained.  "  It  was  programmed  months 
ago.  But  I  don't  care.  I  'm  heading  for 
the  mountains.  I  've  quit." 

She  glanced  at  the  unfinished  inter 
view  on  the  desk  and  sighed. 

"  How  lordly  men  are,"  she  said. 
"Masters  of  destiny.  They  do  as  they 
please  — " 

"  From  what  I  Ve  heard,"  he  inter 
rupted,  "you've  done  pretty  much  as 
you  please.  It 's  one  of  the  things  I  like 
about  you.  And  what  has  struck  me 
hard  from  the  first  was  the  way  you  and 
I  understand  each  other." 

He  broke  off  and  looked  at  her  with 
burning  eyes. 

"  Well,  the  ring  did  one  thing  for  me," 
he  went  on.  "  It  made  me  acquainted 
with  you.  And  when  you  find  the  one 
woman,  there 's  just  one  thing  to  do. 
Take  her  in  your  two  hands  and  don't 
127 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

let  go.  Come  on,  let  us  start  for  the 
mountains." 

It  had  come  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
thunder-clap,  and  yet  she  felt  that  she 
had  been  expecting  it.  Her  heart  was 
beating  up  and  almost  choking  her  in  a 
strangely  delicious  way.  Here  at  least 
was  the  primitive  and  the  simple  with  a 
vengeance.  Then,  too,  it  seemed  a 
dream.  Such  things  did  not  take  place 
in  modern  newspaper  offices.  Love  could 
not  be  made  in  such  fashion;  it  only  so 
occurred  on  the  stage  and  in  novels. 

He  had  arisen,  and  was  holding  out 
both  hands  to  her. 

"  I  don't  dare,"  she  said  in  a  whisper, 
half  to  herself.  "  I  don't  dare." 

And  thereat  she  was  stung  by  the 
quick  contempt  that  flashed  in  his  eyes 
but  that  swiftly  changed  to  open  incre 
dulity. 

"  You  'd  dare  anything  you  wanted," 
128 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

he  was  saying.  "  I  know  that.  It 's  not 
a  case  of  dare,  but  of  want.  Do  you 
want?" 

She  had  arisen,  and  was  now  swaying 
as  if  in  a  dream.  It  flashed  into  her  mind 
to  wonder  if  it  were  hypnotism.  She 
wanted  to  glance  about  her  at  the  familiar 
objects  of  the  room  in  order  to  identify 
herself  with  reality,  but  she  could  not 
take  her  eyes  from  his.  Nor  did  she 
speak. 

He  had  stepped  beside  her.  His  hand 
was  on  her  arm,  and  she  leaned  toward 
him  involuntarily.  It  was  all  part  of  the 
dream,  and  it  was  no  longer  hers  to  ques 
tion  anything.  It  was  the  great  dare. 
He  was  right.  She  could  dare  what  she 
wanted,  and  she  did  want.  He  was  help 
ing  her  into  her  jacket.  She  was  thrust 
ing  the  hat-pins  through  her  hair.  And 
even  as  she  realized  it,  she  found  herself 
walking  beside  him  through  the  opened 
129 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

door.  The  "  Flight  of  the  Duchess  "  and 
"The  Statue  and  the  Bust,"  darted 
through  her  mind.  Then  she  remem 
bered  "  Waring." 

"'What's  become  of  Waring?'"  she 
murmured. 

"  '  Land  travel  or  sea-faring?  '  he 
murmured  back. 

And  to  her  this  kindred  sufficient  note 
was  a  vindication  of  her  madness. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  building  he 
raised  his  hand  to  call  a  taxi,  but  was 
stopped  by  her  touch  on  his  arm. 

"  Where  are  we  going?  "  she  breathed. 

"To  the  Ferry.  We've  just  time  to 
catch  that  Sacramento  train." 

"But  I  can't  go  this  way,"  she  pro 
tested.  "  I  ...  I  have  n't  even  a 
change  of  handkerchiefs." 

He  held  up  his  hand  again  before  re 
plying. 

"  You  can  shop  in  Sacramento.  We  '11 
130 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

get  married  there  and  catch  the  night 
overland  north.  I  '11  arrange  everything 
by  telegraph  from  the  train." 

As  the  cab  drew  to  the  curb,  she  looked 
quickly  about  her  at  the  familiar  street 
and  the  familiar  throng,  then,  with  al 
most  a  flurry  of  alarm,  into  Glendon's 
face. 

"  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  you,"  she 
said. 

"  We  know  everything  about  each 
other,"  was  his  answer. 

She  felt  the  support  and  urge  of  his 
arms,  and  lifted  her  foot  to  the  step.  The 
next  moment  the  door  had  closed,  he  was 
beside  her,  and  the  cab  was  heading  down 
Market  Street.  He  passed  his  arm 
around  her,  drew  her  close,  and  kissed 
her.  When  next  she  glimpsed  his  face 
she  was  certain  that  it  was  dyed  with  a 
faint  blush. 

"I  .  .  .  I  've  heard  there  was  an 
131 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

art  in  kissing,"  he  stammered.  "  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it  myself,  but  I  '11 
learn.  You  see,  you  're  the  first  woman 
I  ever  kissed." 


132 


IX 

WHERE  a  jagged  peak  of  rock 
thrust  above  the  vast  virgin 
forest,  reclined  a  man  and  a 
woman.  Beneath  them,  on  the  edge  of 
the  trees,  were  tethered  two  horses.  Be 
hind  each  saddle  were  a  pair  of  small  sad 
dle-bags.  The  trees  were  monotonously 
huge.  Towering  hundreds  of  feet  into 
the  air,  they  ran  from  eight  to  ten  and 
twelve  feet  in  diameter.  Many  were 
much  larger.  All  morning  they  had 
toiled  up  the  divide  through  this  unbroken 
forest,  and  this  peak  of  rock  had  been  the 
first  spot  where  they  could  get  out  of  the 
forest  in  order  to  see  the  forest. 

Beneath  them  and  away,  far  as  they 
could  see,  lay  range  upon  range  of  haze- 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

empurpled  mountains.  There  was  no 
end  to  these  ranges.  They  rose  one  be 
hind  another  to  the  dim,  distant  skyline, 
where  they  faded  away  with  a  vague 
promise  of  unending  extension  beyond. 
There  were  no  clearings  in  the  forest; 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  untouched, 
unbroken,  it  covered  the  land  with  its 
mighty  growth. 

They  lay,  feasting  their  eyes  on  the 
sight,  her  hand  clasped  in  one  of  his;  for 
this  was  their  honeymoon,  and  these  were 
the  redwoods  of  Mendocino.  Across 
from  Shasta  they  had  come,  with  horses 
and  saddle-bags,  and  down  through  the 
wilds  of  the  coast  counties,  and  they  had 
no  plan  except  to  continue  until  some 
other  plan  entered  their  heads.  They 
were  roughly  dressed,  she  in  travel- 
stained  khaki,  he  in  overalls  and  woolen 
shirt.  The  latter  was  open  at  the  sun 
burned  neck,  and  in  his  hugeness  he 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

seemed  a  fit  dweller  among  the  forest 
giants,  while  for  her,  as  a  dweller  with 
him,  there  were  no  signs  of  aught  else  but 
happiness. 

"Well,  Big  Man,"  she  said,  propping 
herself  upTbrT  an  ^elbo w  to  gaze  at  him, 
"  it  is  more  wonderful  than  you  promised. 
And  we  are  going  through  it  together." 

"  And  there  's  a  lot  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  we  '11  go  through  together,"  he  an 
swered,  shifting  his  position  so  as  to  get 
her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"  But  not  till  we  Ve  finished  with 
this,"  she  urged.  "  I  seem  never  to  grow 
tired  of  the  big  woods  ...  and  of 
you." 

He  slid  effortlessly  into  a  sitting  pos 
ture  and  gathered  her  into  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  you  lover,"  she  whispered. 
"  And  I  had  given  up  hope  of  finding  such 


a  one." 


"  And  I  never  hoped  at  all.     I  must 
i35 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

just  have  known  all  the  time  that  I  was 
going  to  find  you.     Glad?  " 

Her  answer  was  a  soft  pressure  where 
her  hand  rested  on  his  neck,  and  for  long 
minutes  they  looked  out  over  the  great 
woods  and  dreamed. 

"  You  remember  I  told  you  how  I  ran 
away  from  the  red-haired  school  teacher? 
That  was  the  first  time  I  saw  this  coun 
try.  I  was  on  foot,  but  forty  or  fifty 
miles  a  day  was  play  for  me.  I  was  a 
regular  Indian.  I  was  n't  thinking  about 
you  then.  Game  was  pretty  scarce  in  the 
redwoods,  but  there  was  plenty  of  fine 
trout.  That  was  when  I  camped  on  these 
rocks.  I  did  n't  dream  that  some  day  I  'd 
be  back  with  you,  YOU." 

"  And  be  a  champion  of  the  ring,  too," 
he  suggested. 

"  No ;  I  did  n't  think  about  that  at  all. 
Dad  had  always  told  me  I  was  going  to 
be,  and  I  took  it  for  granted.     You  see, 
136 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

he  was  very  wise.     He  was  a  great  man." 

"  But  he  did  n't  see  you  leaving  the 
ring." 

"  I  don't  know.  He  was  so  careful  in 
hiding  its  crookedness  from  me,  that  I 
think  he  feared  it.  I  've  told  you  about 
the  contract  with  Stubener.  Dad  put  in 
that  clause  about  crookedness.  The  first 
crooked  thing  my  manager  did  was  to 
break  the  contract." 

"  And  yet  you  are  going  to  fight  this 
Tom  Cannam.  Is  it  worth  while  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to?  " 

"  Dear  lover,  I  want  you  to  do  what 
ever  you  want." 

So  she  said,  and  to  herself,  her  words 
still  ringing  in  her  ears,  she  marveled  that 
she,  not  least  among  the  stubbornly  inde 
pendent  of  the  breed  of  Sangster,  should 
utter  them.  Yet  she  knew  they  were 
true,  and  she  was  glad. 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  It  will  be  fun,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  don't  understand  all  the  gleeful 
details." 

"  I  have  n't  worked  them  out  yet.  You 
might  help  me.  In  the  first  place  I  'm 
going  to  double-cross  Stubener  and  the 
betting  syndicate.  It  will  be  part  of  the 
joke.  I  am  going  to  put  Cannam  out  in 
the  first  round.  For  the  first  time  I  shall 
be  really  angry  when  I  fight.  Poor  Tom 
Cannam,  who  's  as  crooked  as  the  rest, 
will  be  the  chief  sacrifice.  You  see,  I  in 
tend  to  make  a  speech  in  the  ring.  It 's 
unusual,  but  it  will  be  a  success,  for  I  am 
going  to  tell  the  audience  all  the  inside 
workings  of  the  game.  It 's  a  good 
game,  too,  but  they  're  running  it  on  busi 
ness  principles,  and  that 's  what  spoils  it. 
But  there,  I  'm  giving  the  speech  to  you 
instead  of  at  the  ring." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  there  to  hear,"  she 
said. 

138 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

He  looked  at  her  and  debated. 

"  I  'd  like  to  have  you.  But  it 's  sure  to 
be  a  rough  time.  There  is  no  telling 
what  may  happen  when  I  start  my  pro 
gram.  But  I  '11  come  straight  to  you  as 
soon  as  it 's  over.  And  it  will  be  the  last 
appearance  of  Young  Glendon  in  the  ring, 
in  any  ring." 

"  But,  dear,  you  've  never  made  a 
speech  in  your  life,"  she  objected.  "  You 
might  fail." 

He  shook  his  head  positively. 

"  I  'm  Irish,"  he  announced,  "  and 
what  Irishman  was  there  who  couldn't 
speak?"  He  paused  to  laugh  merrily. 
"  Stubener  thinks  I'm  crazy.  Says  a  man 
can't  train  on  matrimony.  A  lot  he 
knows  about  matrimony,  or  me,  or  you, 
or  anything  except  real  estate  and  fixed 
fights.  But  I  '11  show  him  that  night,  and 
poor  Tom,  too.  I  really  feel  sorry  for 
Tom." 

139 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  My  dear  abysmal  brute  is  going  to 
behave  most  abysmally  and  brutally,  I 
fear,"  she  murmured. 

He  laughed. 

"  I  'm  going  to  make  a  noble  attempt 
at  it.  Positively  my  last  appearance,  you 
know.  And  then  it  will  be  you,  YOU. 
But  if  you  don't  want  that  last  appear 
ance,  say  the  word." 

"  Of  course  I  want  it,  Big  Man.  I 
want  my  Big  Man  for  himself,  and  to  be 
himself  he  must  be  himself.  If  you  want 
this,  I  want  it  for  you,  and  for  myself,  too. 
Suppose  I  said  I  wanted  to  go  on  the 
stage,  or  to  the  South  Seas  or  the  North 
Pole?" 

He  answered  slowly,  almost  solemnly. 

"  Then  I  'd  say  go  ahead.  Because 
you  are  you  and  must  be  yourself  and  do 
whatever  you  want.  I  love  you  because 
you  are  you." 

"  And  we're  both  a  silly  pair  of  lovers," 
140 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

she  said,  when  his  embrace  had  relaxed. 

"  Is  n't  it  great!  "  he  cried. 

He  stood  up,  measured  the  sun  with  his 
eye,  and  extended  his  Jiand  out  over  the 
big  woods  that  covered  the  serried,  pur 
ple  ranges. 

'<  We  've  got  to  sleep  out  there  some 
where.  It 's  thirty  miles  to  the  nearest 
camp." 


141 


WHO,  of  all  the  sports  present, 
will  ever  forget  the  memorable 
night  at  the  Golden  Gate 
Arena,  when  Young  Glendon  put  Tom 
Cannam  to  sleep  and  an  even  greater  one 
than  Tom  Cannam,  kept  the  great  audi 
ence  on  the  ragged  edge  of  riot  for  an 
hour,  caused  the  subsequent  graft  investi 
gation  of  the  supervisors  and  the  indict 
ments  of  the  contractors  and  the  building 
commissioners,  and  pretty  generally  dis 
rupted  the  whole  fight  game.  It  was  a 
complete  surprise.  Not  even  Stubener 
had  the  slightest  apprehension  of  what 
was  coming.  It  was  true  that  his  man 
had  been  insubordinate  after  the  Nat 
Powers  affair,  and  had  run  off  and  got 
142 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

married;  but  all  that  was  over.  Young 
Pat  had  done  the  expected,  swallowed  the 
inevitable  crookedness  of  the  ring,  and 
come  back  into  it  again. 

The  Golden  Gate  Arena  was  new. 
This  was  its  first  fight,  and  it  was  the 
biggest  building  of  the  kind  San  Fran 
cisco  had  ever  erected.  It  seated  twenty- 
five  thousand,  and  every  seat  was  oc 
cupied.  Sports  had  traveled  from  all  the 
world  to  be  present,  and  they  had  paid 
fifty  dollars  for  their  ring-side  seats.  The 
cheapest  seat  in  the  house  had  sold  for 
five  dollars. 

The  old  familiar  roar  of  applause  went 
up  when  Billy  Morgan,  the  veteran  an 
nouncer,  climbed  through  the  ropes  and 
bared  his  gray  head.  As  he  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak,  a  heavy  crash  came  from 
a  near  section  where  several  tiers  of  low 
seats  had  collapsed.  The  crowd  broke 
into  loud  laughter  and  shouted  jocular  re- 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

grets  and  advice  to  the  victims,  none  of 
whom  had  been  hurt.  The  crash  of  the 
seats  and  the  hilarious  uproar  caused  the 
captain  of  police  in  charge  to  look  at  one 
of  his  lieutenants  and  lift  his  brows  in 
token  that  they  would  have  their  hands 
full  and  a  lively  night. 

One  by  one,  welcomed  by  uproarious 
applause,  seven  doughty  old  ring  heroes 
climbed  through  the  ropes  to  be  intro 
duced.  They  were  all  ex-heavy-weight 
champions  of  the  world.  Billy  Morgan 
accompanied  each  presentation  to  the 
audience  with  an  appropriate  phrase. 
One  was  hailed  as  "  Honest  John  "  and 
"Old  Reliable,"  another  was  "the 
squarest  two-fisted  fighter  the  ring  ever 
saw."  And  of  others:  "the  hero  of  a 
hundred  battles  and  never  threw  one  and 
never  lay  down " ;  "  the  gamest  of  the 
old  guard " ;  "  the  only  one  who  ever 
came  back  " ;  "  the  greatest  warrior  of 
144 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

them  all " ;  and  "  the  hardest  nut  in  the 
ring  to  crack." 

All  this  took  time.  A  speech  was  in 
sisted  on  from  each  of  them,  and  they 
mumbled  and  muttered  in  reply  with 
proud  blushes  and  awkward  shamblings. 
The  longest  speech  was  from  "  Old  Re 
liable  "  and  lasted  nearly  a  minute.  Then 
they  had  to  be  photographed.  The  ring 
filled  up  with  celebrities,  with  champion 
wrestlers,  famous  conditioners,  and  vet 
eran  time-keepers  and  referees.  Light 
weights  and  middle-weights  swarmed. 
Everybody  seemed  to  be  challenging 
everybody.  Nat  Powers  was  there,  de 
manding  a  return  match  from  Young 
Glendon,  and  so  were  all  the  other  shin 
ing  lights  whom  Glendon  had  snuffed 
out.  Also,  they  all  challenged  Jim  Han- 
ford,  who,  in  turn,  had  to  make  his  state- 
Vnent,  which  was  to  the  effect  that  he 
would  accord  the  next  fight  to  the  winner 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

of  the  one  that  was  about  to  take  place. 
The  audience  immediately  proceeded  to 
name  the  winner,  half  of  it  wildly  crying 
"  Glendon,"  and  the  other  half  "  Powers." 
In  the  midst  of  the  pandemonium  another 
tier  of  seats  went  down,  and  half  a  dozen 
rows  were  on  between  cheated  ticket 
holders  and  the  stewards  who  had  been 
reaping  a  fat  harvest.  The  captain  des 
patched  a  message  to  headquarters  for 
additional  police  details. 

The  crowd  was  feeling  good.  When 
Cannam  and  Glendon  made  their  ring  en 
trances  the  Arena  resembled  a  national 
political  convention.  Each  was  cheered 
for  a  solid  five  minutes.  The  ring  was 
now  cleared.  Glendon  sat  in  his  corner 
surrounded  by  his  seconds.  As  usual, 
Stubener  was  at  his  back.  Cannam  was 
introduced  first,  and  after  he  had  scraped 
and  ducked  his  head,  he  was  compelled 
to  respond  to  the  cries  for  a  speech.  He 
146 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

stammered  and  halted,  but  managed  to 
grind  out  several  ideas. 

"  I  'm  proud  to  be  here  to-night,"  he 
said,  and  found  space  to  capture  another 
thought  while  the  applause  was  thunder 
ing.  "  I  Ve  fought  square.  I  've  fought 
square  all  my  life.  Nobody  can  deny 
that.  And  I  'm  going  to  do  my  best  to 
night." 

There  were  loud  cries  of:  "That's 
right,  Tom!"  "We  know  that!" 
"Good  boy,  Tom!"  "You're  the  boy 
to  fetch  the  bacon  home ! " 

Then  came  Glendon's  turn.  From  him, 
likewise,  a  speech  was  demanded,  though 
for  principals  to  give  speeches  was  an  un 
precedented  thing  in  the  prize-ring.  Billy 
Morgan  held  up  his  hand  for  silence, 
and  in  a  clear,  powerful  voice  Glendon 
began. 

"Everybody  has  told  you  they  were 
proud  to  be  here  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

am  not."  The  audience  was  startled,  and 
he  paused  long  enough  to  let  it  sink  home. 
"  I  am  not  proud  of  my  company.  You 
wanted  a  speech.  I  '11  give  you  a  real 
one.  This  is  my  last  fight.  After  to 
night  I  leave  the  ring  for  good.  Why? 
I  have  already  told  you.  I  don't  like  my 
company.  The  prize-ring  is  so  crooked 
that  no  man  engaged  in  it  can  hide 
behind  a  corkscrew.  It  is  rotten 
to  the  core,  from  the  little  profes 
sional  clubs  right  up  to  this  affair  to 
night." 

The  low  rumble  of  astonishment  that 
had  been  rising  at  this  point  burst  into 
a  roar.  There  were  loud  boos  and  hisses, 
and  many  began  crying :  "  Go  on  with 
the  fight!"  "We  want  the  fight!" 
"  Why  don't  you  fight?  "  Glendon,  wait 
ing,  noted  that  the  principal  disturbers 
near  the  ring  were  promoters  and  man 
agers  and  fighters.  In  vain  did  he  strive 
148 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

to  make  himself  heard.  The  audience 
was  divided,  half  crying  out,  "  Fight !  " 
and  the  other  half,  "  Speech!  Speech!  " 

Ten  minutes  of  hopeles  madness  pre 
vailed.  Stubener,  the  referee,  the  owner 
of  the  Arena,  and  the  promoter  of  the 
fight,  pleaded  with  Glendon  to  go  on  with 
the  fight.  When  he  refused,  the  referee 
declared  that  he  would  award  the  fight  in 
forfeit  to  Cannam  if  Glendon  did  not 
fight. 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  the  latter  retorted. 
"  I  '11  sue  you  in  all  the  courts  if  you  try 
that  on,  and  I  '11  not  promise  you  that 
you  '11  survive  this  crowd  if  you  cheat  it 
out  of  the  fight.  Besides,  I  'm  going  to 
fight.  But  before  I  do  I  'm  going  to 
finish  my  speech." 

"  But  it 's  against  the  rules,"  protested 
the  referee. 

"  It 's  nothing  of  the  sort.  There  's 
not  a  word  in  the  rules  against  ring-side 
149 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

speeches.  Every  big  fighter  here  to 
night  has  made  a  speech." 

"  Only  a  few  words/'  shouted  the  pro 
moter  in  Glendon's  ear.  "But  you're 
giving  a  lecture." 

"  There  's  nothing  in  the  rules  against 
lectuxfes^"  Glendon  answered.  "  And  now 
you  fellows  get  out  of  the  ring  or  I  '11 
throw  you  out." 

The  promoter,  apoplectic  and  strug 
gling,  was  dropped  over  the  ropes  by  his 
coat-collar.  He  was  a  large  man,  but  so 
easily  had  Glendon  done  it  with  one  hand 
that  the  audience  went  wild  with  delight. 
The  cries  for  a  speech  increased  in  vol 
ume.  Stubener  and  the  owner  beat  a 
wise  retreat.  Glendon  held  up  his  hands 
to  be  heard,  whereupon  those  that 
shouted  for  the  fight  redoubled  their 
efforts.  Two  or  three  tiers  of  seats 
crashed  down,  and  numbers  who  had  thus 
lost  their  places,  added  to  the  turmoil 
150 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

by  making  a  concerted  rush  to  squeeze 
in  on  the  still  intact  seats,  while  those 
behind,  blocked  from  sight  of  the  ring, 
yelled  and  raved  for  them  to  sit  down. 

Glendon  walked  to  the  ropes  and  spoke 
to  the  police  captain.  He  was  compelled 
to  bend  over  and  shout  in  his  ear. 

"  If  I  don't  give  this  speech,"  he  said, 
"  this  crowd  will  wreck  the  place.  If 
they  break  lose  you  can  never  hold  them, 
you  know  that.  Now  you  've  got  to  help. 
You  keep  the  ring  clear  and  I  '11  silence 
the  crowd." 

He  went  back  to  the  center  of  the  ring 
and  again  held  up  his  hands. 

"  You  want  that  speech?  "  he  shouted 
in  a  tremendous  voice. 

Hundreds  near  the  ring  heard  him  and 
cried  "Yes!" 

"Then  let  every  man  who  wants  to 
hear  shut  up  the  noise-maker  next  to 
him!" 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

The  advice  was  taken,  so  that  when  he 
repeated  it,  his  voice  penetrated  farther. 
Again  and  again  he  shouted  it,  and 
slowly,  zone  by  zone,  the  silence  pressed 
outward  from  the  ring,  accompanied  by 
a  muffled  undertone  of  smacks  and  thuds 
and  scuffles  as  the  obstreperous  were  sub 
dued  by  their  neighbors.  Almost  had 
all  confusion  been  smothered,  when  a 
tier  of  seats  near  the  ring  went  down. 
This  was  greeted  with  fresh  roars  of 
laughter,  which  of  itself  died  away,  so 
that  a  lone  voice,  far  back,  was  heard 
distinctly  as  it  piped:  "Go  on,  Glendon! 
We  're  with  you !  " 

Glendon  had  the  Celt's  intuitive  knowl 
edge  of  the  psychology  of  the  crowd.  He 
knew  that  what  had  been  a  vast  disorderly 
mob  five  minutes  before  was  now  tightly 
in  hand,  and  for  added  effect  he  deliber 
ately  delayed.  Yet  the  delay  was  just 
long  enough  and  not  a  second  too  long. 
152 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

For  thirty  seconds  the  silence  was  com 
plete,  and  the  effect  produced  was  one 
of  awe.  Then,  just  as  the  first  faint  hints 
of  restlessness  came  to  his  ears,  he  began 
to  speak: 

"  When  I  finish  this  speech,"  he  said, 
"  I  am  going  to  fight.  I  promise  you  it 
will  be  a  real  fight,  one  of  the  few  real 
fights  you  have  ever  seen.  I  am  going 
to  get  my  man  in  the  shortest  possible 
time.  Billy  Morgan,  in  making  his  final 
announcement,  will  tell  you  that  it  is  to 
be  a  forty-five-round  contest.  Let  me 
tell  you  that  it  will  be  nearer  forty-five 
seconds. 

"  When  I  was  interrupted  I  was  telling 
you  that  the  ring  was  rotten.  It  is  — 
from  top  to  bottom.  It  is  run  on  busi 
ness  principles,  and  you  all  know  what 
business  principles  are.  Enough  said. 
You  are  the  suckers,  every  last  one  of 
you  that  is  not  making  anything  out  of  it. 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Why  are  the  seats  falling  down  to-night? 
Graft.  Like  the  fight  game,  they  were 
built  on  business  principles." 

He  now  held  the  audience  stronger 
than  ever,  and  knew  it. 

"  There  are  three  men  squeezed  on  two 
seats.  I  can  see  that  everywhere.  What 
does  it  mean?  Graft.  The  stewards 
don't  get  any  wages.  They  are  supposed 
to  graft.  Business  principles  again.  You 
pay.  Of  course  you  pay.  How  are  the 
fight  permits  obtained?  Graft.  And 
now  let  me  ask  you:  if  the  men  who 
build  the  seats  graft,  if  the  stewards 
graft,  if  the  authorities  graft,  why 
should  n't  those  higher  up  in  the  fight 
game  graft?  They  do.  And  you  pay. 

"And  let  me  tell  you  it  is  not  the 
fault  of  the  fighters.  They  don't  run  the 
game.  The  promoters  and  managers  run 
it ;  they  're  the  business  men.  The 
fighters  are  only  fighters.  They  begin 
i54 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

honestly  enough,  but  the  managers  and 
promoters  make  them  give  in  or  kick 
them  out.  There  have  been  straight 
fighters.  And  there  are  now  a  few,  but 
they  don't  earn  much  as  a  rule.  I  guess 
there  have  been  straight  managers. 
Mine  is  about  the  best  of  the  boiling. 
But  just  ask  him  how  much  he 's  got 
salted  down  in  real  estate  and  apartment 
houses." 

Here  the  uproar  began  to  drown  his 
voice. 

"  Let  every  man  who  wants  to  hear 
shut  up  the  man  alongside  of  him ! " 
Glendon  instructed. 

Again,  like  the  murmur  of  a  surf,  there 
was  a  rustling  of  smacks,  and  thuds,  and 
scuffles,  and  the  house  quieted  down. 

"  Why  does  every  fighter  work  over 
time  insisting  that  he 's  always  fought 
square?  Why  are  they  called  Honest 
Johns,  and  Honest  Bills,  and  Honest 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Blacksmiths,  and  all  the  rest?  Doesn't 
it  ever  strike  you  that  they  seem  to 
be  afraid  of  something?  When  a  man 
comes  to  you  shouting  he  is  honest,  you 
get  suspicious.  But  when  a  prize-fighter 
passes  the  same  dope  out  to  you,  you 
swallow  it  down. 

"  May  the  best  man  win !  How  often 
have  you  heard  Billy  Morgan  say  that! 
Let  me  tell  you  that  the  best  man  does  n't 
win  so  often,  and  when  he  does  it 's 
usually  arranged  for  him.  Most  of  the 
grudge  fights  you  've  heard  or  seen  were 
arranged,  too.  It 's  a  program.  The 
whole  thing  is  programmed.  Do  you 
think  the  promoters  and  managers  are 
in  it  for  their  health?  They're  not. 
They  're  business  men. 

"Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  are  three 
fighters.  Dick  is  the  best  man.  In  two 
fights  he  could  prove  it.  But  what  hap 
pens?  Tom  licks  Harry.  Dick  licks 
156 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

Tom.  Harry  licks  Dick.  Nothing 
proved.  Then  come  the  return  matches. 
Harry  licks  Tom.  Tom  licks  Dick. 
Dick  licks  Harry.  Nothing  proved. 
Then  they  try  again.  Dick  is  kicking. 
Says  he  wants  to  get  along  in  the  game. 
So  Dick  licks  Tom,  and  Dick  licks  Harry. 
Eight  fights  to  prove  Dick  the  best  man, 
when  two  could  have  done  it.  All  ar 
ranged.  A  regular  program.  And  you 
pay  for  it,  and  when  your  seats  don't 
break  down  you  get  robbed  of  them  by 
the  stewards. 

"  It 's  a  good  game,  too,  if  it  were  only 
square.  The  fighters  would  be  square  if 
they  had  a  chance.  But  the  graft  is  too 
big.  When  a  handful  of  men  can  divide 
up  three-quarters  of  a  million  dollars  on 
three  fights  — " 

A  wild  outburst  compelled  him  to  stop. 
Out  of  the  medley  of  cries  from  all  over 
the  house,  he  could  distinguish  such  as 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"  What  million  dollars?  "  "  What  three 
fights  ?  "  "  Tell  us !  "  "  Go  on !  "  Like 
wise  there  were  boos  and  hisses,  and  cries 
of  "  Muckraker !  Muckraker !  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  hear? "  Glendon 
shouted.  "  Then  keep  order !  " 

Once  more  he  compelled  the  impres 
sive  half  minute  of  silence. 

"What  is  Jim  Hanford  planning? 
What  is  the  program  his  crowd  and  mine 
are  framing  up  ?  They  know  I  Ve  got 
him.  He  knows  I  Ve  got  him.  I  can 
whip  him  in  one  fight.  But  he 's  the 
champion  of  the  world.  If  I  don't  give 
in  to  the  program,  they'll  never  give  me 
a  chance  to  fight  him.  The  program 
calls  for  three  fights.  I  am  to  win  the 
first  fight.  It  will  be  pulled  off  in  Ne 
vada  if  San  Francisco  won't  stand  for  it. 
We  are  to  make  it  a  good  fight.  To 
make  it  good,  each  of  us  will  put  up  a 
side  bet  of  twenty  thousand.  It  will  be 
158 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

real  money,  but  it  won't  be  a  real  bet. 
Each  gets  his  own  slipped  back  to  him. 
The  same  way  with  the  purse.  We  '11  di 
vide  it  evenly,  though  the  public  division 
will  be  thirty-five  and  sixty-five.  The 
purse,  the  moving  picture  royalties,  the 
advertisements,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
drags  won't  be  a  cent  less  than  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  thousand.  We  '11  divide  it, 
and  go  to  work  on  the  return  match. 
Hanford  will  win  that,  and  we  divide 
again.  Then  comes  the  third  fight ;  I  win 
as  I  have  every  right  to;  and  we  have 
taken  three-quarters  of  a  million  out 
of  the  pockets  of  the  fighting  public. 
That 's  the  program,  but  the  money  is 
dirty.  And  that's  why  I  am  quitting 
the  ring  to-night  — " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Jim  Han- 
ford,  kicking  a  clinging  policeman  back 
among  the  seat-holders,  heaved  his  huge 
frame  through  the  ropes,  bellowing: 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

"It's  a  lie!" 

He  rushed  like  an  infuriated  bull  at 
Glendon,  who  sprang  back,  and  then,  in 
stead  of  meeting  the  rush,  ducked  cleanly 
away.  Unable  to  check  himself,  the  big 
man  fetched  up  against  the  ropes.  Flung 
back  by  the  spring  of  them,  he  was  turn 
ing  to  make  another  rush,  when  Glendon 
landed  him.  Glendon,  cool,  clear-seeing, 
distanced  his  man  perfectly  to  the  jaw 
and  struck  the  first  full-strength  blow  of 
his  career.  All  his  strength,  and  his 
reserve  of  strength,  went  into  that  one 
smashing  muscular  explosion. 

Hanf ord  was  dead  in  the  air  —  in  so  far 
as  unconsciousness  may  resemble  death. 
So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  ceased  at 
the  moment  of  contact  with  Glendon's 
fist.  His  feet  left  the  floor  and  he  was 
in  the  air  until  he  struck  the  topmost 
rope.  His  inert  body  sprawled  across 
it,  sagged  at  the  middle,  and  fell  through 
1 60 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

the  ropes  and  down  out  of  the  ring 
upon  the  heads  of  the  men  in  the  press 
seats. 

The  audience  broke  loose.  It  had  al 
ready  seen  more  than  it  had  paid  to  see, 
for  the  great  Jim  Hanford,  the  world 
champion,  had  been  knocked  out.  It  was 
unofficial,  but  it  had  been  with  a  single 
punch.  Never  had  there  been  such  a 
night  in  fistiana.  Glendon  looked  rue 
fully  at  his  damaged  knuckles,  cast  a 
glance  through  the  ropes  to  where  Han- 
ford  was  groggily  coming  to,  and  held  up 
his  hands.  He  had  clinched  his  right  to 
be  heard,  and  the  audience  grew  still. 

"When  I  began  to  fight,"  he  said, 
"they  called  me  'One-Punch  Glendon.' 
You  saw  that  punch  a  moment  ago.  I 
always  had  that  punch.  I  went  after  my 
men  and  got  them  on  the  jump,  though 
I  was  careful  not  to  hit  with  all  my  might. 
Then  I  was  educated.  My  manager  told 
161 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

me  it  was  n't  fair  to  the  crowd.  He  ad 
vised  me  to  make  long  fights  so  that  the 
crowd  could  get  a  run  for  its  money.  I 
was  a  fool,  a  mutt.  I  was  a  green  lad 
from  the  mountains.  So  help  me  God,  I 
swallowed  it  as  the  truth.  My  manager 
used  to  talk  over  with  me  what  round 
I  would  put  my  man  out  in.  Then  he 
tipped  it  off  to  the  betting  syndicate,  and 
the  betting  syndicate  went  to  it.  Of 
course  you  paid.  But  I  am  glad  for  one 
thing.  I  never  touched  a  cent  of  the 
money.  They  did  n't  dare  offer  it  to  me, 
because  they  knew  it  would  give  the 
game  away. 

"  You  remember  my  fight  with  Nat 
Powers.  I  never  knocked  him  out.  I 
had  got  suspicious.  So  the  gang  framed 
it  up  with  him.  I  didn't  know.  I  in 
tended  to  let  him  go  a  couple  of  rounds 
over  the  sixteenth.  That  last  punch  in 
the  sixteenth  did  n't  shake  him.  But  he 
162 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

faked  the  knock-out  just  the  same  and 
fooled  all  of  you." 

"  How  about  to-night?  "  a  voice  called 
out.  "  Is  it  a  frame-up?  " 

"It  is,"  was  Glendon's  answer. 
"How's  the  syndicate  betting?  That 
Cannam  will  last  to  the  fourteenth." 

Howls  and  hoots  went  up.  For  the 
last  time  Glendon  held  up  his  hand  for 
silence. 

"  I  'm  almost  done  now.  But  I  want 
to  tell  you  one  thing.  The  syndicate  gets 
landed  to-night.  This  is  to  be  a  square 
fight.  Tom  Cannam  won't  last  till  the 
fourteenth  round.  He  won't  last  the  first 
round." 

Cannam  sprang  to  his  feet  in  his  corner 
and  cried  out  in  a  fury: 

"  You  can't  do  it.  The  man  don't  live 
who  can  get  me  in  one  round !  " 

Glendon  ignored  him  and  went  on. 

"Once  now  in  my  life  I  have  struck 
163 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

with  all  my  strength.  You  saw  that  a 
moment  ago  when  I  caught  Hanford. 
To-night,  for  the  second  time,  I  am  going 
to  hit  with  all  my  strength — that  is,  if 
Cannam  does  n't  jump  through  the  ropes 
right  now  and  get  away.  And  now  I  'm 
ready." 

He  went  to  his  corner  and  held  out  his 
hands  for  his  gloves.  In  the  opposite 
corner  Cannam  raged  while  his  seconds 
tried  vainly  to  calm  him.  At  last  Billy 
Morgan  managed  to  make  the  final  an 
nouncement. 

"*This  will  be  a  forty-five  round  con 
test,"  he  shouted.  "  Marquis  of  Queens- 
bury  Rules !  And  may  the  best  man  win ! 
Let  her  go!" 

The  gong  struck.  The  two  men  ad 
vanced.  Glendon's  right  hand  was  ex 
tended  for  the  customary  shake,  but 
Cannam,  with  an  angry  toss  of  the  head, 
refused  to  take  it.  To  the  general  sur- 
164 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

prise,  he  did  not  rush.     Angry  though  he 

was,   he   fought   carefully,   his   touched 

pride  impelling  him  to  bend  every  effort 

to  last  out  the  round.    Several  times  he 

struck,  but  he  struck  cautiously,  never 

relaxing   his    defense.     Glendon   hunted 

him  about  the  ring,  ever  advancing  with 

the  remorseless  tap-tap  of  his  left  foot. 

Yet  he  struck  no  blows,  nor  attempted 

to  strike.     He  even  dropped  his  hands  to 

his  sides  and  hunted  the  other  defense- 

lessly  in  an  effort  to  draw  him  out.    Can- 

nam  grinned  defiantly,  but  declined  to 

take  advantage  of  the  proffered  opening. 

Two  minutes  passed,  and  then  a  change 

came  over  Glendon.     By  every  muscle, 

by  every  line  of  his  face,  he  advertised 

that  the  moment  had  come  for  him  to 

get  his  man.     Acting  it  was,  and  it  was 

well  acted.     He  seemed  to  have  become 

a  thing  of  steel,  as  hard  and  pitiless  as 

steel.     The  effect  was  apparent  on  Can- 

165 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

nam,  who  redoubled  his  caution.  Glen- 
don  quickly  worked  him  into  a  corner  and 
herded  and  held  him  there.  Still  he 
struck  no  blow,  nor  attempted  to  strike, 
and  the  suspense  on  Cannam' s  part  grew 
painful.  In  vain  he  tried  to  work  out  of 
the  corner,  while  he  could  not  summon 
resolution  to  rush  upon  his  opponent  in 
an  attempt  to  gain  the  respite  of  a  clinch. 
Then  it  came  —  a  swift  series  of  simple 
feints  that  were  muscle  flashes.  Cannam 
was  dazzled.  So  was  the  audience.  No 
two  of  the  onlookers  could  agree  after 
ward  as  to  what  took  place.  Cannam 
ducked  one  feint  and  at  the  same  time 
threw  up  his  face  guard  to  meet  another 
feint  for  his  jaw.  He  also  attempted  to 
change  position  with  his  legs.  Ring-side 
witnesses  swore  that  they  saw  Glendon 
start  the  blow  from  his  right  hip  and  leap 
forward  like  a  tiger  to  add  the  weight  of 
his  body  to  it.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
1 66 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

blow  caught  Cannam  on  the  point  of  the 
chin  at  the  moment  of  his  shift  of  posi 
tion.  And  like  Hanford,  he  was  uncon 
scious  in  the  air  before  he  struck  the 
ropes  and  fell  through  on  the  heads  of 
the  reporters. 

Of  what  happened  afterward  that  night 
in  the  Golden  Gate  Arena,  columns  in  the 
newspapers  were  unable  adequately  to 
describe.  The  police  kept  the  ring  clear, 
but  they  could  not  save  the  Arena.  It 
was  not  a  riot.  It  was  an  orgy.  Not  a 
seat  was  left  standing.  All  over  the 
great  hall,  by  main  strength,  crowding 
and  jostling  to  lay  hands  on  beams  and 
boards,  the  crowd  uprooted  and  over 
turned.  Prize-fighters  sought  protection 
of  the  police,  but  there  were  not  enough 
police  to  escort  them  out,  and  fighters, 
managers,  and  promoters  were  beaten 
and  battered.  Jim  Hanford  alone  was 
spared.  His  jaw,  prodigiously  swollen, 
167 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

earned  him  this  mercy.  Outside,  when 
finally  driven  from  the  building,  the 
crowd  fell  upon  a  new  seven-thousand- 
dollar  motor  car  belonging  to  a  well- 
known  fight  promoter  and  reduced  it  to 
scrapiron  and  kindling  wood. 

Glendon,  unable  to  dress  amid  the 
wreckage  of  dressing  rooms,  gained  his 
automobile,  still  in  his  ring  costume  and 
wrapped  in  a  bath  robe,  but  failed  to 
escape.  By  weight  of  numbers  the  crowd 
caught  and  held  his  machine.  The  police 
were  too  busy  to  rescue  him,  and  in  the 
end  a  compromise  was  effected,  whereby 
the  car  was  permitted  to  proceed  at  a 
walk  escorted  by  five  thousand  cheering 
madmen. 

It  was  midnight  when  this  storm  swept 
past  Union  Square  and  down  upon  the 
St.  Francis.  Cries  for  a  speech  went  up, 
and  though  at  the  hotel  entrance,  Glendon 
was  good-naturedly  restrained  from  es- 
168 


THE  ABYSMAL  BRUTE 

caping.  He  even  tried  leaping  out  upon 
the  heads  of  the  enthusiasts,  but  his  feet 
never  touched  the  pavement.  On  heads 
and  shoulders,  clutched  at  and  uplifted 
by  every  hand  that  could  touch  his  body, 
he  went  back  through  the  air  to  the  ma 
chine.  Then  he  gave  his  speech,  and 
Maud  Glendon,  looking  down  from  an 
upper  window  at  her  young  Hercules 
towering  on  the  seat  of  the  automobile, 
knew,  as  she  always  knew,  that  he  meant 
it  when  he  repeated  that  he  had  fought 
his  last  fight  and  retired  from  the  ring 
forever. 


The  End 


169 


Other  Great  Books  by  Jack  London 

Smoke  Bellew 

The  sting  of  real  appetite,  the  goodly  ache  of 
fatigue,  the  rush  of  mad,  strong  blood  that  bites 
like  wine  through  all  one's  body  as  work  is  done, 
love  and  comradeship  such  as  the  world  of  civili 
zation  seldom  knows — all  these  are  vividly  por 
trayed  in  this  splendid  tale  of  adventure  and  love 
in  the  Klondike. 

Eight  full-page  illustrations  by  Monahan. 
Price  $1.30  net)  postage  ij  cents. 

The  Night-Born 

A  woman  good  to  look  upon,  if  unlettered,  of  clean 
but  sordid  life,  set  free  from  the  pots  and  kettles 
of  a  Juneau  kitchen  by  chance  reading  of 
Thoreau's  "Cry  of  the  Human" — a  woman  who 
finds  her  freedom  and  her  joy  queening  a  tribe  of 
wild  Indians  and  several  thousand  square  miles 
of  Arctic  hunting  territory — this  is  the  heroine 
Jack  London  creates  for  the  story  which  opens 
this  collection  of  short  tales.  Jack  London  is  at 
his  splendid  best  perhaps  when  his  people  and 
his  scenes  are  set  in  the  far  north ;  but  here  are 
some  of  his  more  notable  short  stories,  with  widely 
varied  settings  and  character,  but  with  a  touch  of 
"the  night-born"  wildness  in  all. 
Frontispiece  in  color.  Price  $1.25  net,  postage  extra. 

At  all  book-stores.     Published  by 

THE  CENTURY  GO. 


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